<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Road to Ruin Is on Fire by Hexqueen517</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925810">The Road to Ruin Is on Fire</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexqueen517/pseuds/Hexqueen517'>Hexqueen517</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a writer, Based on Donald Westlake's The Road to Ruin, Crowley is a Professional Driver, Everybody Hates Gabriel, GO Events Book Fest, M/M, The Butler Did It</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:14:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29925810</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexqueen517/pseuds/Hexqueen517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is a professional driver on the straight and narrow. His days as a getaway driver ended when his crew's leader, Beatrix Beals, gave up crime to embrace famous motivational speaker Gabriel Horn's "Great Plan." Only Horn was the real criminal, recently caught embezzling millions from his stockholders. Now Beals wants revenge by stealing Horn's antique car collection. Crowley is just the person to execute Beals' "Greater Plan" by posing as a chauffeur. His new job requires him to drive Horn's 1933 Bentley, the greatest car ever built. It also seems to involve taking Horn's half-brother Aziraphale shopping, on picnics, and out for leisurely drives, usually after staying up late drinking with Aziraphale. Steal the cars? Why would he ever want to leave?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>GO-Events Book Fest</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley restlessly tapped out a rhythm on the dashboard of the Corsa as he waited for his next student to arrive. Was there any vehicle on Earth uglier than a late model Vauxhall Corsa? More attractive lorries were used to haul sewage. One day, he’d have enough money to buy his own car rather than using the driving school’s car. He didn’t mind giving driving lessons: he’d done worse for a living, and his marketable skills were pretty much limited to driving and listening to anxious teenagers. But the Corsa was an insult. And his new student was late. That was never a good sign. New drivers who were late tended to be flustered and made all sorts of mistakes, and Soho traffic was viciously unforgiving. He double checked his phone for the schedule. A.Z. Fell, novice driver, yup, already six minutes late.</p><p>He shouldn’t have traded lessons with Newt, but originally, he’d been scheduled to give a lesson on driving on the correct side of the road to an American with a California driver’s license. Crowley preferred to work with new drivers, so he’d talked Newt into trading students. He hoped this wasn’t about to bite him in the arse.</p><p>He waited at the kerb, engine idling, parallel parked behind a puke-green Ford. He snarled at his phone screen. People who weren’t going to show up should cancel properly so he knew not to leave the house. This was the only plan he had for the day, and the April sky was lead gray and damp. He could’ve stayed in bed until late afternoon. Hell, he could’ve stayed in bed until June.</p><p>A tap on the window startled him. A man in his 40s with a poofy halo of white-blond curls waved at him, and his heart sank. Was this someone from his past? Couldn’t be. If he’d ever seen this man before, he’d remember. He’d never seen anyone with such fluffy hair. Nobody from Crowley’s past would wear such a sheepish expression. He shook his head – <i>I don’t know you, mate</i> – and the man held up an honest-to-god pocketwatch. Crowley had definitely never met anyone who—</p><p>Oh. Right. This was his appointment. A.Z. Fell.</p><p>He motioned impatiently to the door on the driver’s side. Maybe this was the student’s father, although he doubted it. Nothing about this man, from his three-piece suit to his innocent smile, hinted at being the parent of a teenager. Sure enough, the man who opened the car door was alone.</p><p>“My sincere apologies,” he said in a voice so posh, he should’ve come with a manservant. “I’m afraid I quite lost track of time. Entirely my fault.”</p><p>Crowley shrugged. “No harm, no foul.” And then, after nothing happened, “You want to get in the car?”</p><p>“Oh! Right, of course. Behind the steering wheel, then?”</p><p>“Yeah, you’ll need that to steer the car.” He hoped Newt was having a good time with his American, who probably hadn’t time traveled here from the Edwardian era. “Are you A.Z. Fell?”</p><p>“I am. Pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand, but then his smile faltered. “I shouldn’t have assumed you shake hands. It’s going a bit extinct, really. In any case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, ah …”</p><p>“Crowley,” he said, despite a momentary spark of mischief that made him want to leave the man in suspense.</p><p>“Crowley.” The smile was back. The man wiggled a bit, like he could smile with his entire body. And the way he drew out the vowels, like he was tasting them – Crowley had never heard his name sound remotely like that.</p><p>But he’d made the decision to be annoyed when Fell was late, and he wouldn’t go back on it now. He was determined to see it through to the bitter end.</p><p>“So, Mr. Fell, you’re older than my other students.” The hundred-watt smile dimmed. <i>Good</i>. “Have you ever been a driver before?”</p><p>“No, no, I never thought it was necessary. I’ve lived in the city all my life. In fact, I wasn’t sure I should take this lesson, but it was a gift I couldn’t see my way to refusing.” He was nervous, twisting his hands one over the other. “I hope I’m not wasting your time.”</p><p>“My time’s been paid for. You can’t waste my time.” Although it was taking an eternity to get to the driving portion of the lesson. “Why don’t you start by getting comfortable?”</p><p>“I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you. It’s very toasty in here.”</p><p>Crowley struggled not to be amused. “No, I mean, check that the seat and the mirrors are in the right positions,” he said.</p><p>Fell actually blushed, little clouds of pink appearing on his cheeks while he fluttered his eyelashes. “Of course, how silly of me.”</p><p>Crowley watched him feel around for the lever to move the seat. Look at those soft, round hands, never done a hard day of labor in his life. Crowley, whose idea of overly strenuous exercise was hanging a houseplant in front of a window, approved. Fell had to be gay, right? He was practically broadcasting it, although Crowley didn’t think it was an affectation. He could spot a liar, always could. He probably had a rich husband … no, no ring. So, probably someone he called his life partner, some toff with a Mayfair flat and a tuxedo in the closet and a name that went back to the Domesday Book. Someone Crowley would absolutely hate. Someone who—</p><p>“I believe everything’s in position,” Fell said, interrupting what had been an enjoyable mental tirade. “Now what?”</p><p>“Well, Mr. Fell—"</p><p>“Oh, please, that sounds so formal. Call me Aziraphale.”</p><p>“Call you what now?”</p><p>He sighed so wholeheartedly that Crowley realised he’d hit a nerve. “Aziraphale,” the man said – Aziraphale said – emphasizing each syllable. “It’s a family name.”</p><p>“There’s someone else in your family running around with the name Aziraphale?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s nostrils flared, and Crowley couldn’t help but feel a shot of amusement. God, he was such a prick, but this was becoming fun.</p><p>“When I say a family name,” Aziraphale said testily, “I mean that my mother chose the name without consulting me.”</p><p>“Huh. You were probably busy, being born and all.”</p><p>“Quite. But people have a terrible habit of assuming that I picked the name out myself. And I did not.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“I just wanted to make that clear.”</p><p>“I could call you something else. Bill? Onno? Lucifer Morningstar?”</p><p>Crowley could feel his grin ramping up to obnoxiousness. Any second, and Aziraphale was going to flounce out of the car. That would also be fun, but on the other hand, he couldn’t afford to get a bad review, and he suspected that Aziraphale Fell’s bad reviews would be very convincing. Time to cut his losses.</p><p>“Let’s get started then,” he said, “Engage the brake before you—”</p><p>“It’s an angel’s name, if you must know,” Aziraphale said, as if this continuing conversation was Crowley’s fault. “My mother named me after the guardian angel of queer people.”</p><p>This was so much better than Crowley could’ve imagined. There was no way he was getting the stupid grin off his face now. He didn’t know what question to ask first, and ended up spitting out some random consonants before he managed, “Why?”</p><p>Aziraphale leaned closer, tilting his head to share a confidence. His aftershave pricked at a memory Crowley didn’t have, a sense of being tucked under a blanket. Someone resting a hand on his forehead to feel for fever. Maybe he was running a fever now, because how else could a smell trigger a memory of something he’d only seen in the movies?</p><p>“My mother didn’t tell me for sure,” Aziraphale said. “But about a year after I was born, she left my father and me to live on a commune with her very special lady friend.”</p><p>“So, yeaah, you could make some guesses there.” He wasn’t going to laugh, he really wasn’t. “Do you, uh, tell everyone that story?”</p><p>“Good lord, no. I haven’t told anyone that story in years.” Aziraphale studied the dashboard instruments. “Obviously, I’ll say anything to get out of driving.”</p><p>He did look a bit pale. Reassurance wasn’t Crowley’s strong suit, but he wanted to be a good instructor, so he took a stab at it. “Hey, nothing bad is going to happen. We do this at your pace, when you’re ready.”</p><p>Aziraphale pouted. Damn, it was sort of cute. “What if I’m never ready?” he asked.</p><p>“Then I have to ask why you decided to book a lesson in the first place.”</p><p>“Ah.” Aziraphale reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a greeting card. He opened it and began reading aloud. “Happy birthday to my favorite brother. I got you something you really need. A driving lesson! They say old dogs can’t learn new tricks, but you never know. Tell you what. If through a miracle you ever learn to drive, I’ll let you pick out one of my cars for yourself. Something tells me my cars will be safe in my garage, ha ha.”</p><p>Aziraphale read as if he was on the stage at the Globe. It definitely painted a picture. “He wrote out <i>ha ha</i>, did he?” Crowley said.</p><p>“Yes. I suppose I’m fortunate he didn’t use LOL.” Aziraphale tucked the card back into his suit jacket. “It goes without saying that I’m not his favorite brother as much as I’m his only brother. Half-brother, actually, my mother being … I told you that part, didn’t I?” He scrunched up his nose in confusion.</p><p>“So, you’re here to show up a right prick then?”</p><p>“Oh, I wouldn’t call Gabriel that,” he said with a pleased shimmy. And Crowley felt inexplicably proud of himself.</p><p>“’S not like everyone needs to drive,” he said, firmly believing the world would be a better place if people stayed off his bloody roads. “What do you do for a living, anyway, that you need to drive all of a sudden?”</p><p>“I’m a literature professor.”</p><p>Honestly, if Crowley had been forced to guess, he would’ve come close. Aziraphale’s beige overcoat and tartan bow tie had ‘professor’ written all over. “Alright, Professor, stick with me, and you’ll be driving to campus in your half-brother’s car before you know it.”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. “Just the one lesson, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher,” and here he blushed pink again, “but I’m on sabbatical, and I’m leaving the country tomorrow.”</p><p>“Oh.” He felt his face droop. Why was that so disappointing? Had Aziraphale noticed that he’d stopped smiling? Should he smile again?</p><p>But Aziraphale was still talking. “I’m very excited about it. I’m going to Paris! It’s for a writing retreat. I had to submit three chapters of my work in progress and all of my publishing credits to even be considered. It’s a very competitive program. All expenses paid.”</p><p>“All expenses paid in Paris? Huh. I’m in the wrong line of work.”</p><p>Aziraphale laughed. It was hard not to laugh along with him. His laugh was so bubbly, Crowley was carried away on the sound.</p><p>“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Gone off on a tangent to avoid driving. I really am a terrible driver, you know.”</p><p>“I promise, you’re safe with me.” It came out much more serious and hushed than Crowley had intended.</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “Do you know, I believe you.”</p><p>Something behind Crowley’s ribcage did a weird, fluttery flip. His heart? That couldn’t be healthy. He wasn’t in his thirties anymore. He’d have to get that checked out if it happened again.</p><p>Crowley cleared his throat so he’d start talking normally. “Yeah. Yup. So, uh, press down the brake pedal with your right foot and I’ll release the parking brake.”</p><p>Aziraphale wrapped his fists around the steering wheel and squeezed, turning his knuckles white. “I’m ready now,” he said.</p><p>Crowley released the parking brake. The Corsa was parked on a slight downslope, and the car rolled forward and tapped the rear bumper of the Ford in front of them with a polite <i>klunk</i>. Aziraphale let go of wheel entirely and squeaked in horror. And Crowley, no longer able to hold it in, burst out laughing.</p><p>“Oh, stop laughing, you fiend,” Aziraphale said, his breath ragged. “This is humiliating. Please tell me you’ve seen worse.”</p><p>“Right, right, sure,” Crowley managed to spit out.</p><p>Aziraphale breathed in and out deeply, making his broad chest rise and fall, not that Crowley was trying to notice. “You have seen worse?” He beseeched Crowley with puppy-dog eyes.</p><p>“Nah, not even close, mate,” Crowley said. “That was … yep, that was epic.”</p><p>Aziraphale ducked his head and slumped his shoulders to make himself smaller. It was the strangest thing, practically an out-of-body experience, but it was like an alarm blared in Crowley’s head. <i>Fix this, fix this, fix this NOW.</i></p><p>“It’s fine. It’s fine!” he insisted. “It was a gentle tap. Didn’t leave a mark. Nobody’ll notice it. Honest.”</p><p>Aziraphale stared at him as if his opinion was important, the very last word on the subject. “Really?” he said. “Do you think it will be okay?”</p><p>“’Course it will,” Crowley said confidently. Should he put his hand on Aziraphale’s arm? Just to comfort him? No, that would be too much. “This is nothing to—”</p><p>Bam! Bam! The sound of a fist falling on the roof of the Corsa startled him to silence. Only one man would dare. Sure enough, Sergeant Shadwell, that ancient street beast of the Soho patrol, loomed over the Corsa in his rumpled uniform. Crowley lowered the window, curling his toes as the cold air whooshed in. This had better be a short conversation.</p><p>“Ach, weel, if it isn’t Crowley,” Shadwell said, trying on yet another accent today. “And what’s the trouble this time, boyo?”</p><p>“No trouble at all, Sergeant,” Crowley said. “Did you want something?”</p><p>“No trouble at all, he says,” Shadwell mimicked, and Crowley knew his voice didn’t sound remotely that … mincing. “One of your students just collided with another hautomobile. Isn’t that trouble?”</p><p>Aziraphale leaned over the centre console to talk out the window. Crowley sucked in his breath. Aziraphale’s aftershave was very noticeable, not too strong, but a touch spicy. Cinnamon, maybe. “This is entirely my fault, officer,” Aziraphale said. “I should have some identification with me—”</p><p>“Noooo,” Crowley insisted. “You don’t need to show your papers. Nothing happened here.”</p><p>“I’ll be the judge of what happened,” Shadwell said, pushing out his chest like a mangy pigeon. “This is an incident, that’s what this is.”</p><p>Aziraphale patted himself down. “I could swear I brought my wallet … oh, goodness. This is so embarrassing. I do apologise, officer, but I don’t seem to have my identification with me.”</p><p>“Oooh, you don’t, then?” This seemed to be Shadwell’s posh accent. “Wot do you propose we do about that, then?”</p><p>Aziraphale looked at Crowley helplessly. Oof. He really shouldn’t get Shadwell’s shorts in a twist. He was already on the patrolman’s shit list. He opened the glove compartment without a word, hoping Newt had left the insurance certificate in the glove box.</p><p>“Please, officer,” Aziraphale said sweetly. He even clasped his hands together. What kind of monster could refuse that? “If there’s anything I can do … leave you my home phone number, perhaps …”</p><p>“You have a home phone number?” Crowley said. “Where’s your mobile?”</p><p>Aziraphale blinked twice, those pretty eyelashes aflutter. “I didn’t think to bring it with me.”</p><p>Crowley’s lips tugged upwards. “Aren’t you supposed to be mobile with it? Sort of the point.”</p><p>“Yes, well, I don’t like to be bound to it.”</p><p>“God forbid. Huh. Wait. If you don’t drive, and you don’t carry a phone, how do you call a ride-sharing service?”</p><p>“Why would I want to do that?” Aziraphale asked.</p><p>Crowley left off the futile search for the Corsa’s paperwork. “What do you do when you want to go somewhere? Just –" and here he made an ambiguous hand gesture – “stand in the street and whistle?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyebrows lifted. “Buses and taxis exist for this very purpose, my dear.”</p><p>My dear? Crowley’s chest did that pulling thing again. Great, another medical problem to ignore. He opened his mouth to reply, but the “my dear” had scooped out his brain entirely.</p><p>“So, no identification, eh?” Shadwell said. “What do you think you’re playing at?”</p><p>Aziraphale leaned over Crowley again to reach the window. Spicy wasn’t the right word for the aftershave. Maybe … oceany? Was that a word? It was nice, whatever it was. Very nice.</p><p>“I’m not playing at anything, officer,” Aziraphale said, his politeness fraying at the edges.</p><p>“This is a motor vehicle haccident,” Shadwell said. “You didn’t think you were going to get away with a crime like this in broad daylight, didja?”</p><p>“Now look here,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve been assured this is what’s known to professionals as a ‘gentle tap’. I don’t see how that’s a crime.”</p><p>“Oh, you don’t, do you, you great Southern pansy?”</p><p>Normally, Crowley’s anger ran cold, but a searing wave of righteous indignation on Aziraphale’s behalf burned through him. It led him through flinging the car door open and standing toe-to-toe with Shadwell with no awareness of how he’d gotten there.</p><p>Apparently, his mouth was also on autopilot. “You stupid, shallow, bigoted man,” he was apparently ranting while apparently poking his finger into Shadwell’s personal space. “If you think for a minute that we’re going to tolerate prejudice from a representative of the police department, you are flapping mad. I’m going to see your captain right now.”</p><p>“Ach, you wouldn’t dare, Mister Anthony J. Crowley.”</p><p>Shadwell spitting out his full name was probably supposed to be a threat of some sort. Crowley was past caring. “And I captured that whole exchange on my phone, slur and everything, so don’t try to worm out of it,” he said loudly.</p><p>“Crowley, I’m sure everything’s fine.” Aziraphale had left the car, and he rested a hand on Crowley’s forearm without hesitation. And Crowley had been right, it really was too much. His arm was practically on fire. It was the only part of his body that wasn’t completely numb from damp.</p><p>“Dah … But … everything’s not fine,” Crowley said.</p><p>Aziraphale’s blond eyebrows rose, his eyes twinkling. He had the most expressive face. “I’m sure we wouldn’t want to get the fine patrolman in trouble,” Aziraphale said. “Who are we to mar his record with his only citizens’ complaint?”</p><p>Oh, that was bloody brilliant. “You don’t think Shadwell has other citizen complaints?” he said, ready and willing to play good cop-bad cop against the actual cop. “You heard the language he uses.”</p><p>“Now, now, gentleman, I think there’s been an innocent misunderstanding,” Shadwell said. “I think you may have, weell …”</p><p>“Misconstrued you?” Azirphale offered.</p><p>“Recorded you?” Crowley said. “And posted it online?”</p><p>Shadwell made a production out of leaning down to inspect the cars’ fenders. “Look at that, willya? I don’t think these cars so much as touched each other.”</p><p>Crowley glared at him over his sunglasses. “That has nothing to do with your dehumanising language, so don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily.”</p><p>“But we understand how busy you are.” Aziraphale tut-tutted. “It’s a very stressful job, I’m sure. I can sympathise. Think no more about it, officer.”</p><p>Shadwell touched his hat brim. “Thank you, sir. Nice to talk with an upstanding citizen such as yourself. You have a good day.”</p><p>Shadwell scowled darkly at Crowley before he left, muttering not-quite under his breath about accident forms. He’d be back, Crowley was sure of it, to find the owner of the Ford. Or possibly, knowing Shadwell’s low cunning, he was on his way to report the accident to Crowley’s boss to land him in hot water.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble.”</p><p>The confident Aziraphale who’d stood up to Shadwell sagged, and Crowley watched him try to curl in on himself again. He tried to form words with his mouth faster than his brain could keep up.</p><p>“No, look, you – grahh, you don’t have to apologise.”</p><p>“I sort of feel like I do,” Aziraphale said. Then he glanced up at Crowley through his lashes with a tiny smile. “I don’t know that anyone has ever rushed to my defence so quickly. At least I should thank you.”</p><p>“Pffft.” Crowley waved it off. “No thanks necessary.” That sounded cool, right? Yes. Totally cool.</p><p>“You may have saved me quite a bit of trouble with your smooth talking. I’d offer to buy you a drink, but unfortunately, I seem to have forgotten my wallet.”</p><p>Smooth talking, eh? That was better than cool, really. It would probably be even smoother if they stopped grinning at each other like idiots in the middle of the pavement.</p><p>“Right,” Crowley said. “I should get back to the office anyway and find my insurance information before Shadwell comes back.”</p><p>Aziraphale didn’t have his mobile, so no exchanging phone numbers. Just as well. Aziraphale was on his way to Paris. There was no point in asking him out; they’d never see each other again.</p><p>“You could do me one favour,” Crowley said.</p><p>“Oh, yes, anything.”</p><p>Crowley took a step closer and growled in his ear. “Promise me you’ll never get behind the wheel of a car again.”</p><p>Aziraphale giggled, a real-life giggle. “You are an absolute demon,” he pronounced.</p><p>Crowley rocked on his heels. Warmth radiated from his center and unfroze his long-suffering toes. He thought he might treasure that compliment forever.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Unfortunately, Crowley had been right about needing to get to his office before Shadwell. What with the traffic stuck behind a stalled-out Honda CR-V – nobody who owned a CR-V should be licensed to drive, only blind people bought CR-Vs – and a pushy bus driver whose route Crowley couldn’t avoid with a detour, Shadwell was able to walk to the driving school faster than Crowley could get there. He pulled the Corsa into the car park next to the other Corsas. One day, one blessed day, he’d have a real car, something to be proud of. Something with style.</p><p>In fact, Crowley had never so much as sat behind the wheel of a car that had style. He’d learned to drive in a rusted Citron hatchback with badly aligned steering, slipshod brake pads, and stolen plates, and the hand he’d been dealt in the automotive department had deteriorated from there. Over the years, Crowley had let all the crappy bedrooms and bullshit jobs from Beals fall out of his memories, but he remembered every shitty car he’d driven with crystal clear precision. Years ago, when Beals had quit their life of crime to slavishly follow the Great Plan, Crowley had hoped that earning an honest living on his own would improve his lot. Nope. It was Austin Allegros and Corsas and secondhand CR-Vs all the way down.</p><p>He threw his keys on his desk while he watched Shadwell get pissy with his boss in said boss’s office. Crowley couldn’t hear them behind the office’s window, but he could see Shadwell pinwheeling his arms. This wasn’t going to play well. If only he’d recorded Shadwell earlier. At least he’d know he hadn’t imagined the entire encounter. Nobody who looked and sounded as posh as Aziraphale Fell had ever talked with Crowley like he was a person. No, not just a person. A smooth talker. A professional. Someone who rushed to defend the innocent despite the risk to his career.</p><p>“Yoo-hoo, Crowley.” Newt waved in his face, interrupting his mental … whatever it was. “Get into it with Shadwell again?”</p><p>“He insulted my client.”</p><p>“He’s just a harmless old man,” Newt said. “I feel sorry for him.”</p><p>“You would.” Poor Newt, always letting people take advantage of him. Speaking of which … “How was the lesson with the American?”</p><p>“Ah, that.” Newt picked at one of his cuticles. “She was … it was …” Newt swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his face turning brick red.</p><p>“Hell, mate, did she offer you a blow job?”</p><p>Predictably, Newt’s jaw dropped. Unpredictably, his next words were, “She offered me a chauffeur’s job.”</p><p>“Wot?” Crowley could see it, though. Newt was good with what was known as “customer service,” meaning he knew how to grovel effectively. Sure, he could see Newt in a black uniform with a silly hat, saying nothing but “yessir” and “nosir.” Shit. He’d kind of miss the kid, but Newt deserved better than this lousy gig-economy job. Plus, he was terrible with teenagers who used foul language, which Crowley was sure was at least 115% of them.</p><p>“What would you be driving?” he said.</p><p>“I don’t know. I didn’t ask,” Newt said.</p><p>“What’s the salary like?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“Are you sure this is a real job offer? You don’t seem to know anything.”</p><p>Newt shrugged. “She was very distracting. Very, um, American. She’s a personal holistic health advisor.”</p><p>That sounded American alright. “Why did she need a driving lesson if she’s hiring a chauffeur?”</p><p>“Oh, um, I explained that wrong. She doesn’t need a chauffeur. She came here from California with her employer. She said he’s hiring an entire staff. Chauffeur, butler, security, the works.”</p><p>“Congratulations.” Crowley didn’t sound very bitter. If he hadn’t switched lessons, the job offer might’ve been his, but there was no guarantee it would’ve played out that way. He didn’t have any regrets, not even when he spotted Shadwell and his boss laughing together. Not an ideal sign there.</p><p>“I don’t think I’m going to take the job,” Newt said. “I don’t know, should I? On the one hand, I’d have to leave the city.”</p><p>“Your mother would be fine,” Crowley said. It was about time Newt moved out on his own. “What’s the other hand?”</p><p>“Oh, right. The other hand is … Anathema’s very …” Newt trailed off. So, Anathema the American holistic health adviser, huh? Crowley wouldn’t have pegged Newt as a sucker for girls with crystals and tarot cards, but you learn something new about people every day – whether you want to or not.</p><p>“Look, mate, the important thing is what would you get to drive?” Crowley grabbed himself a cup of water from the cooler, using his mug with the devil’s horns on it that nobody else dared to touch. Absolute demon, he was. “Is her employer loaded or what?”</p><p>“Dunno, never heard of him. His name’s Gabriel Horn. You ever heard of something called the Great Plan?”</p><p>Crowley’s sip of water went down the wrong pipe. Dying, he was choking to death. Newt pounded him on the back uselessly.</p><p>After Crowley recovered, he took a very slow drink and tried again. “Gabriel Horn? The Great Plan? He’s a crook, Newt. Been all over the news. How could you miss it?”</p><p>Crowley read all the news articles concerning Gabriel Horn, infamous millionaire embezzler. He was interested in Horn’s malfeasance because of Beals. Once upon a time, Crowley had been Beals’ getaway driver, until Beals became obsessed with the Great Plan. Crowley had earned a tidy sum as a getaway driver – not quite enough to purchase a decent set of wheels, but he’d been getting there, slowly but surely, until Beals shut it down.</p><p>Beatrix Beals was nothing less than a crime planning prodigy. They didn’t go in for splashy, newsworthy burglaries. Beals’ plans were so good, they’d never even been a person of interest before they went straight. Never had to carry a weapon, either. As far as Crowley was concerned, Gabriel Horn and the Great Plan had screwed him out of a big chunk of tax-free cash.</p><p>“This Horn guy, he stole from his company,” Crowley explained. “Robbed the stockholders blind. The American government, too. Some sort of tax avoidance scheme.”</p><p>“Really? How come he didn’t go to prison?”</p><p>Crowley barked something like a laugh. Newt was so naïve. “You can’t touch a guy that rich. He’s surrounded by a moat filled with man-eating lawyers. He made a deal to pay restitution. He’s supposed to be poor now, if you can believe that. Huh. Wonder what he’s doing in England?”</p><p>“Hiring a staff,” Newt said.</p><p>Crowley looked up Horn on his phone to show Newt he was telling the truth, and also to see if any news had dropped about Horn moving across the Atlantic. The Great Plan had started in some uniquely West Coast American cult before taking the world by storm as the definitive self-help program to achieve personal success. Crowley clicked on a headline about Horn moving to an English town named Tadfield. Horn’s arrogant smirk filled the screen, and Crowley scrolled down quickly, skimming the article as he went. Until a photo towards the end of the article made him gasp.</p><p>For the second time that day, Anthony J. Crowley fell deeply in love.</p><p>She was black and sleek and classically gorgeous, with curves in all the right places. Long and lean, the 1933 Bentley showed off the full impact of the merger between Rolls-Royce luxury and Bentley power. Even in a pixelated photo on his phone, the chrome work gleamed. Somehow, some way, that car was going to be his.</p><p>After all, how hard could it be to steal from a crook?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley hadn’t set foot in the Mended Drum for seven years, ever since Beals told him right at this very bar that they were giving up burglary for a job at a municipal water treatment plant as part of the Great Plan. Crowley hadn’t been back since, and he was mildly surprised when the same bartender from those long ago days, with the same overgrown mustache, nodded at him and began to pour him a glass of water. Crowley was the driver. He was always the driver. Drinking alcohol was something he did alone, in the privacy of his flat. Even when he went out to the clubs to pull, it was sober, which did wonders for his success rate, if not his enjoyment of the process.</p><p>The bartender got distracted by his phone, and Crowley slouched over the bar impatiently. He was running late, thanks to the eternal construction on the A308 somehow merging with the incompetent repair of the A3220 to create a perfect storm of lane closures. Beals was waiting in the back room, which they used to call Hell’s council room. It was Beals’ throne room, where they doled out jobs and coordinated timetables. Crowley’s text about Gabriel Horn’s search for employees in Tadfield had been of very great interest to Beals, so much so that they were resurrecting Hell’s council to discuss it. Crowley had roped Newt into asking the American girl, Anathema, to show up and brief them about Horn’s hiring process.</p><p>Crowley’s life had been a series of unfortunate left turns, all vaguely steering him downwards. But his luck had finally turned around. Gabriel Horn was a vintage car collector who kept a garage at his Tadfield estate chock full of exotic automobiles. Every one of those gorgeous cars cried out for Crowley’s tender loving care.</p><p>It hadn’t escaped his notice that good fortune had landed in his lap right after he’d met Aziraphale. He’d never see him again, but Aziraphale had been his guardian angel all the same. Angels, Crowley figured, made very rare appearances, and he wasn’t going to squander this opportunity.</p><p>The pub was dark, especially while wearing sunglasses, but Crowley would swear on a bible that the same regulars from seven years ago were sitting in the same barstools. “Stands to reason,” one of the regulars proclaimed while Crowley pushed a stray ice cube off the bar, “that Adam and Eve didn’t have belly buttons. Logic, eh?”</p><p>Another regular blinked abnormally slowly. “I don’t get it.”</p><p>“Adam and Eve were never babies, were they?” the first man said. “Can’t argue with that.”</p><p>A few regulars muttered about this. The loudest of them put down her drink and held up a finger. “No, no, no, I learned this in Sunday school. If God wanted to give them belly buttons, He could. So who’s to say He didn’t?”</p><p>Finally, the bartender put down his phone and handed Crowley his water. “Your friends are in the back room,” he said, nodding towards the dim recesses of the pub.</p><p>“Thanks.” Moustache man grunted in acknowledgement.</p><p>He made his way to Hell’s council room, catching the back end of the regulars’ debate. “Madam, I’m Adam. That’s a metaphor. Same backwards as forwards.”</p><p>“That’s not a metaphor,” another regular said. “That’s a different word. A bigger word.”</p><p>“A metafive?”</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes as he knocked lightly on the door, and then opened it. Crap, he was last in, which meant he’d have to sit with his back to the door. Fucking A308 construction.</p><p>“You’re late, Crowley,” Beals said as he closed the door and took a chair at the felt-covered table. Beals was as intimidating as ever, with a dark fringe framing overlarge eyes that seemed to bore into a person’s soul. Beals never raised their voice, but Crowley could always feel their constant fury. The surrounding air tended to crackle with it.</p><p>“Sorry. They’re putting a bike lane on the A3220, which is fucking insane, you can’t find a car going slower than Mach 2—”</p><p>“No,” Beals said. “We are not going to listen to your customary monologue on your route. I can’t spare the hour.”</p><p>In the chair at Beals’ right hand side, the old gang’s forger and frontsperson, Marina Dagon, sniggered into her oddly blue cocktail. Crowley grinned. Dagon was a consummate professional when it came to money, especially other people’s money. Her presence elevated this from a bullshit catch-up session to the real possibility of plan coming together.</p><p>“You haven’t aged a day, Dagon,” Crowley said. “Young as always.”</p><p>Dagon could pass for 17 or 50. Her slicked-back hair was free of the grays Crowley was alarmingly finding over his own temples. She flashed Crowley her teeth, which, for Dagon, passed as a friendly greeting. She could talk up a storm if the job called for it, but that was just for show. Left to her own devices, she preferred rudeness as a conscious style choice.</p><p>There were two other people in the back room. Newt picked at his cuticles nervously as his gaze bounced between Beals and a newcomer, an unimpressed-looking woman in her twenties wearing a long, black dress and a half-dozen silver necklaces. This had to be Anathema Device, offerer of jobs.</p><p>Crowley tipped his chair back. “Did anyone look at those links I texted?”</p><p>“They were … of interest,” Dagon said, giving nothing away.</p><p>“Of interest?” Crowley brought his chair legs crashing to the floor. “Out in this Tadfield hamlet, Gabriel Horn has one of the most important antique car collections in the world. At least three million pounds of rolling stock waiting for us in climate-controlled barns. He’s got a Healy Silverstone, for chrissake. A 1967 Lamborghini Miura, a 1955 Morgan Plus 4.” He didn’t mention the Bentley out of superstition. He didn’t have the courage to speak her name out loud and call the gods’ attention to her.</p><p>“You’ve done your homework,” Anathema said.</p><p>“Crowley has some very specific expertise,” Beals said in a dismissive tone. “But ask him how we’re going to slip away with five or six cars that stand out like a house fire, and how we’re going to sell them, and he’ll get quiet very fast.”</p><p>Since Beals was correct, Crowley got quiet very fast. Anathema, on the other hand, made a chirping noise and clapped her hands together, her eyes glowing with warm approval. This wasn’t the way Crowley would’ve chosen to tell her they were thinking of stealing the cars, but she certainly looked willing. Newt, however, only looked confused, although it was hard to say for sure. Newt had what Crowley called in the privacy of his mind “resting what-just-happened face.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, hang on,” Newt said. “Why are we talking about stealing cars? Crowley, I thought you and your friends were looking for jobs.”</p><p>Beals hardly needed to turn their head to pin Newt with an icy glare. “No more honest jobs. I have a grievance against Gabriel Horn and his Great Plan.”</p><p>Anathema chuckled without any humor. “Yeah, you and the rest of the world.” Her bracelets rattled together as she spread her arms out. “Gabriel Horn was CEO of Archangel Enterprises, a public corporation, and everything in his life was bought and paid for by Archangel Enterprises. The maintenance on his cars, paid by Archangel. The taxes on the Tadfield estate, paid by Archangel. My paycheck, paid by Archangel. The upkeep on his mansion in California, paid by Archangel.” She smiled at Crowley. “He kept his American car collection there. You’d love all those muscle cars.”</p><p>Crowley, faithful to a fault, shrugged. His heart only had room for the Bentley.</p><p>“You’re not supposed to do that, charge personal expenses to your company, right?” Newt asked.</p><p>Anathema scootched in closer to Newt, whose eyes widened. Interesting.</p><p>“You’re right,” Anathema said. “That’s stealing from the stockholders. That should’ve been the company’s profits, but Gabriel sucked it all out. And then everyone who worked for Archangel lost their jobs and pensions. Gabriel got a restitution deal from the IRS – that’s the American tax authorities – to pay some of it back, which means he’s not supposed to be a rich guy with a multimillion-dollar car collection. He sold the American cars, but the cars here, far away from IRS spies? He gave these cars away to a charitable foundation.”</p><p>“Well, that’s good,” Newt said.</p><p>Dagon snorted. “I researched this charitable foundation. It’s a smokescreen. Lift up a rock, and there you’ll find Horn. The cars haven’t even been moved off his property.”</p><p>“That’s bad,” Newt said, and he risked full-fledged eye contact with Anathema. “How did you get involved with this guy?”</p><p>“I had no idea the Great Plan was a great scam until I got here,” Anathema admitted. “And I’m not going to apologise for being a victim. As far as I knew, my checks from Archangel were above board.” She blew out her breath, frustrated. Apparently, she’d been through this explanation before. “When Gabriel said he was relocating to England, I thought it was to expand the business. You know, all the books and seminars and inspirational crap he peddles. I thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The IRS never went public with their shady deal with Gabriel, so I didn’t know they’d forced him to sell his mansion in the States. Meanwhile, I subletted my apartment in California, leased a cottage in Tadfield, and only after I’ve moved do I find out that he’s here to escape his creditors and Archangel isn’t paying me anymore.”</p><p>Crowley whistled. “And you offered our poor Newt a job working with you? Bad form.”</p><p>Anathema fiddled with the ends of her long, dark hair, bracelets jangling. “It’s actually a good job. The charitable foundation pays the chauffeur because the cars can’t sit. You let a car sit around unused, the gasoline gums up, the tires—"</p><p>“We already have a Crowley to lecture us on automotive maintenance,” Beals said. “Have you been to the Tadfield estate yet?”</p><p>Anathema nodded. “Many times. I’m Gabriel’s tennis partner. Part of my job description as his holistic health coach.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the contacts here to get another job. I don’t know anyone in this entire country. Gabriel’s paying me from his personal funds. I took a huge pay cut. Of course, I didn’t find out about the pay cut until I had my belongings moved to Tadfield.”</p><p>“What a bastard,” Crowley remarked.</p><p>“You have no idea what a convincing bastard he can be,” Anathema said. “He screwed me royally. I left my mother alone in Santa Monica. I’ve been trying to figure out how much trouble I’d be in if I broke the lease on the Tadfield cottage, which was super hard to get. Then I met Newt.”</p><p>Crowley didn’t think Newt and Anathema were aware they were giving each other soppy looks. Newt was in it up to his ears now, the sap. Nobody would catch Crowley acting like such a fool over someone he’d just met. A flickering remembrance of grinning in the street at Aziraphale like an idiot tried to shame him into feeling some solidarity with poor Newt, but Crowley smothered the memory on sight. He was far too busy to be pining over someone currently living large in Paris. He had a Bentley to claim.</p><p>“Gabriel Horn is a slippery character,” Dagon said. “We have some … experience with his powers of persuasion.”</p><p>“I devoted seven years of my life to the Great Plan,” Beals said, menace in every syllable. “Seven bloody years doing what Horn calls ‘living my best life’. Working in a wastewater plant, for the love of God, in a dim basement office with a drippy overhead pipe. And what do I have to show for it?”</p><p>“You must know a lot about dirty water by now,” Crowley said, as he had an unfortunate knack for living dangerously. The resulting silence was tense enough to bounce a penny off it.</p><p>“While we’re taking these cars,” Dagon finally said, breaking the tension, “are there any valuables we should be putting in the boot?”</p><p>“I mean, sure,” Anathema said. “It’s an old family estate. Gabriel comes from a long line of very rich men, the type that marry and breed for money. But I don’t know what any of the art or silverware around the house is worth.”</p><p>“We know people who know,” Beals said. “Next time you play tennis, take a look around and make us a list. Crowley, you have a list of the cars you want to take?”</p><p><em>All of them</em>, he thought, but wisely chose to nod instead of speak.</p><p>“The insurance company is the natural customer,” Dagon said. “They don’t argue. They say they’ll go to the authorities, but in the end, they’d rather pay us 10% and get the cars back than reimburse this phony charitable foundation the full value of the cars.”</p><p>“Twenty percent,” Beals said.</p><p>Dagon lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I don’t think they’ll give us that much.”</p><p>“All they can do is say no,” Anathema said. “Then we drive one of the cars into a field, torch it, call the insurance company, and say you can pick up that one for free. The rest will cost you twenty percent.”</p><p>Crowley bit down hard on his finger. He wasn’t going to imagine the Bentley going up in flames. He’d never let this crazy American near his Bentley.</p><p>“I like the way you negotiate,” Beals said with a rare smile.</p><p>“I learned it from watching Gabriel,” Anathema said. “If blood had monetary value, he’d slit his own grandmother’s throat.”</p><p>“Does he live alone at the estate?” Dagon asked.</p><p>Anathema grinned. “That’s my only consolation. He’s amazingly alone. The charitable foundation hires security staff to protect the cars, but they’re really to protect Gabriel because he’s made so many enemies. He even tried to recruit in South Africa. Even there, too many people have heard of Gabriel Horn and the Great Plan.”</p><p>“No family?” Newt asked.</p><p>“His parents passed away years ago. He’s trying to strongarm a brother to come keep him company, but no luck so far. Ever since the world found out that the man behind the Great Plan is a crook, he’s been a pariah. Not a friend in the world.”</p><p>“Aw, what a shame,” Beals said. Crowley had never seen them look so overjoyed, not even after that big job they’d run on that warehouse club, when they’d lucked into cartons and cartons of lightweight laptops. But Beals had bought into the Great Plan garbage big time. Seminars, workbooks, retreats, weekly meetings, the whole fat, expensive package.</p><p>Sometimes Crowley felt fortunate that he wasn’t a true believer in anything. Fewer opportunities to get hurt that way. Maybe faith was something you had to be introduced to as a child to catch it as an adult, like chickenpox coming back as shingles. Back in the Stone Age when he’d grown up, he hadn’t had anything to rely on for strength or optimism other than what he could think up himself. That had vaccinated him against falling for Beals’ sales pitch for the life-changing Great Plan.</p><p>While Crowley was musing, the plot was taking shape. He tuned into Anathema’s words. “If you show up at the estate and say you’re responding to the agency’s job listings, he’ll hire you straight off. The agency will never know because they won’t return his calls. Right now, he’s desperate for a butler, a chauffeur, and another security guard.”</p><p>“I call chauffeur,” Crowley said. Good thing he got dibs on that job before Newt spoke up. He didn’t want to get stuck inside the main house watching Horn like a nanny.</p><p>“I can’t be the butler,” Newt said. “I don’t know how to buttle.”</p><p>Beals leaned over the table. “What’s your name, kid?”</p><p>“Newton Pulsifer.”</p><p>Beals made a face. “We’re going to call you kid. Anyway, kid, you need to apply for the security job. Look at Crowley’s noodle arms. He was never worth a damn when it came to heavy lifting. I wouldn’t hire him as protection for anywhere, even if nobody in their right mind wanted to go there.”</p><p>“You mean like a wastewater treatment plant?” Crowley shot back.</p><p>“Exactly like a wastewater treatment plant,” Beals said with a growl. “You can be the chauffeur, the kid can be our lookout in security, but I want to be in that mansion up close and personal with the king of the Great Plan.”</p><p>“None of you have criminal records, do you?” Anathema asked. “That might be a deal breaker for Gabriel. He won’t hire anyone with a record.”</p><p>“Are you fucking kidding me?” Beals’s voice vibrated with righteous indignation. “That sanctimonious twit cons half the English-speaking world and gets away with it, and he has the nerve to act superior to people who have done their time and paid their debts?”</p><p>Anathema simply smiled, as if to say, yes, yes, that’s exactly who we’re dealing with.</p><p>“I don’t have any convictions on my record,” Dagon said.</p><p>“I don’t either,” Beals said through clenched teeth, “but I might before I’m done with Gabriel Horn.”</p><p>“Uh,” Crowley said, “this might be a problem for me.”</p><p>Newt’s mouth dropped open. “You have a criminal record? When you started at the driving school, you told me you’d never committed a crime.”</p><p>“Eeergh, yeah. In my defense, motor vehicle theft is really a matter of interpretation. See, it’s all in how you look at the law.”</p><p>“Not even a speeding ticket, you said.”</p><p>“Lesson learned about Crowley, kid,” Beals said almost kindly. The glare they turned on Crowley was less amiable. “This had better not screw us, Crowley. If the kid has to be the chauffeur instead of you, we lose our inside man in Security.”</p><p>“Maybe Dagon can make me a new identity,” Crowley said. He could go in there with an alias. That would be slick, actually. Like secret agent cool.</p><p>“That’s not a good enough reason to risk identity theft,” Dagon said. “That has serious criminal penalties, and I don’t want us to come up on anyone’s radar. We’re going to have to hope Horn’s desperate enough not to look too closely. Worse comes to worse, the kid takes the chauffeur’s position and we go on without you.”</p><p>Shit. Goddamn it. There was nothing for it, though. He’d have to turn on the charm with Horn if he wanted a chance to rescue the Bentley from his evil clutches.</p><p>Anathema was practically bouncing in her chair. “This is great, guys. I mean, really great. Let me get you the address for Eden’s Garden and—"</p><p>“For what?” Crowley said.</p><p>She chuckled. “The estate is named Eden’s Garden. Have you ever heard anything so pretentious?”</p><p>“Rule number five of the Great Plan,” Beals said. “Create your own paradise and claim it.”</p><p>That was exactly the sort of meaningless bullshit Crowley expected of the Great Plan, but it was always nice to have one’s prejudices confirmed.</p><p>Beals stood, indicating the meeting was at an end. They barked a command at Crowley to find them transportation to the estate, when they’d present themselves as referrals from the employment agency. Beals walked out with Newt and Anathema, reassuring them that they were making the right choice and wouldn’t get in any trouble with the law. All they had to do was trust them. Crowley wondered if Horn had used the same line of patter to get people to trust him with their futures.</p><p>It would all be worth it, though, if it gave him some money in the bank. Money meant security. Working as a broke-ass driver in the gig economy, he wouldn’t be able to retire until he was 103 years old. Forget the far future; right now, any damage to his vision or reflexes, and he’d be tossed aside to starve.</p><p>He walked out of the back room with Dagon. Her steps were jerky and hesitant, and he struggled to walk slowly enough to accommodate her. Did she have a health scare sometime in the last seven years? It occurred to him that he had no idea what Dagon had been doing. Working for the MI5, joining the circus as a lion tamer, going on tour as a mime – knowing Dagon, any of those ideas were possibilities.</p><p>“You alright?” he asked her.</p><p>“Mmm. I’m a little worried that Beals is getting,” she paused here and sniffed, “carried away in their desire for revenge on Horn. We’ll have to be alert for them going overboard and making amateur mistakes.”</p><p>Imagine that. Dagon was walking slowly to warn him about Beals. “Will do, but you know how professional they are. It’s good to know you trust me to be professional.”</p><p>“I don’t do business with unreliable people.” Before he could absorb what was probably high praise coming from her, she sniffed again. “But it would be reassuring if you told me that you’re willing to let go of these cars.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>She stopped walking, forcing him to also stop in the middle of the pub if he didn’t want to blow her off. “I know you, Crowley,” she said quietly. “You have trouble letting go of nice things. We’re not keeping any of these cars. That’s a sure way for us to get caught, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison. These rich wankers always have friends in high places. If we get caught with Horn’s cars, they’ll throw the book at us.”</p><p>“I know, I know,” he said reassuringly. “Of course we can’t keep the cars. Nope, sell ‘em to the insurance company, that’s the plan. And I’m a hundred percent on board with that plan.”</p><p>She looked him up and down before turning her back on him and leaving. Maybe he hadn’t been all that reassuring.</p><p>But dammit, he was not a fan of that bloody plan, not even a little bit. It wasn’t Beals and Dagon’s fault. They heisted goods to make money. Money meant security. He understood that better than anyone, and he didn’t mean to be resentful. But why couldn’t he live in a universe where he was allowed to have something like the Bentley? No matter how hard he worked or how cleverly Beals schemed, the finer things in life would always be out of his reach. They were all hoarded by people like Gabriel Horn, people who would never condescend to share with others.</p><p>Beals had one thing right. No more honest jobs. The only people who got ahead were people who pissed on the rules. Maybe some alternative universe existed where Anthony J. Crowley got to drive a posh car and go out on dates with guardian angels, but he didn’t live in that world. He lived in this world, where honest people got played for suckers.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Almost every Dortmunder novel has a scene in a bar where the gang plans their heist, including a ridiculous conversation by the drunken bar regulars. This is my take on the running joke. Thanks again to freyjawriter24 for the being my awesome beta reader. </p><p>I'll be posting every Monday, and possibly twice a week if I have a good week, so you may want to subscribe. Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gabriel was pacing the length of the library. Undoubtedly, he’d chosen the library for his pacing because he knew it would be hard for Aziraphale to avoid him there. Since he’d arrived at Eden’s Garden two days ago, Aziraphale had been successfully avoiding his half-brother while making it appear that he wasn’t avoiding him at all. Gabriel’s hostile takeover of the library spelled the end of that strategy. Aziraphale’s choice was now stark: either interact with Gabriel or abandon his much-marked, childhood copy of <i>And Then There Were None</i> (he’d been an odd, lonely child). Not much of a choice, really. Now that he’d started rereading one of his comfort novels, he had to finish it or else all the plot threads left hanging in his brain would drive him mad.</p><p>“Aziraphale!” Gabriel said heartily when Aziraphale tiptoed into the library. “Aren’t you a late sleeper? Early bird gets the worm, you know.”</p><p>“I’m afraid I’m used to academia and student hours.” This was a lie. Aziraphale was, in fact, a morning person. Unfortunately, so was Gabriel. As a result, Aziraphale had decided to lounge in bed all morning, a decision he was in no way regretting at the present moment.</p><p>Gabriel curled his hands into fists and feinted at Aziraphale, stopping short of punching him. It was probably some sort of power move, goodness knew why.</p><p>“Let’s do something!” Gabriel said. He often spoke in exclamations. “It’s boring here. I wish I could go golfing. Too bad you don’t know how to golf.”</p><p>“That is a shame,” Aziraphale said sympathetically. He’d spent several summers taking golf lessons and caddying in his undergrad years. Father had insisted that he and Gabriel both learn the sport. It had been many years since Aziraphale had stopped wondering if Gabriel had a terribly selective memory or if he just never cared to notice what Aziraphale did.</p><p>Just think, if he were in Paris right now, he could be at a café eating crepes. Ah well.</p><p>“I should call some friends,” Gabriel said. “I’m sure someone wants to spend this sunny spring day on the green.”</p><p>He was going to regret this, he suspected, but his conscience required that he give it one more try. “Gabriel,” Aziraphale said in his softest, kindest voice, “you don’t have any friends. Not anymore.”</p><p>“What are you talking about? I have lots of friends. You should’ve seen the parties I used to throw!”</p><p>Perhaps Aziraphale would’ve seen those parties if he’d ever been invited, but most likely not. It wasn’t that he and Gabriel butted heads growing up as much as they’d simply tried to forget about each other’s existence. Gabriel resented Aziraphale being the first born, despite Father’s abandonment of Aziraphale in favour of his second wife and son in America. To Aziraphale, trying to please his distant father and brother had always seemed too difficult, if not impossible. In any case, the kinds of parties Aziraphale preferred were intimate dinners with wine and conversation flowing. Gabriel’s parties were more “see and be seen,” Hollywoodish affairs. Aziraphale would’ve fit in about as well as a wet dog.</p><p>“I just had a genius idea,” Gabriel said. “Let’s have a party here!”</p><p>“Nobody would come,” Aziraphale said. “I know this is difficult, but you’re notorious now.”</p><p>A rare shadow passed over Gabriel’s face. In moments like this, when reality pierced the bubble Gabriel carried around himself, Aziraphale felt sorry for him.</p><p>“What about the lawyers?” Gabriel demanded. “They’ve made enough off me, God knows.”</p><p>“Yes, well, at 400 pounds an hour, I’m sure they’d be happy to attend.”</p><p>Gabriel didn’t seem to hear that and resumed his compulsive pacing. “I can’t even go home. Stuck in a foreign country. Why can’t everyone just get over it? I only did the same thing everyone else does.”</p><p>“Perhaps a little more so,” Aziraphale suggested.</p><p>Gabriel shrugged that off. “What about the fellas from the Archangel offices in London? They can’t get all high and mighty on me. Half of them are under indictment.”</p><p>“If you recall, the judge was very forceful on that topic. No criminal associations.”</p><p>“Criminal associations! I just want to play golf. I can’t play golf by myself. I want to know where my golf buddies are.”</p><p>“They’re not in prison,” Aziraphale said firmly. “And neither are you, and you should all be jolly grateful for that good fortune.”</p><p>Gabriel had a certain facial expression he used to convey ridicule and condescension: his lemon-sucking face. He screwed that expression on as he dismissed Aziraphale’s attempt at getting through the protective bubble. “That wasn’t good fortune. That was money. Throw money at lawyers with the right pedigrees and the IRS always backs down. But how long am I supposed to suffer?”</p><p>Aziraphale nodded as he looked around for his novel. If the afterlife had any justice, every time he refrained from asking Gabriel why he didn’t just follow the Great Plan to solve his problems, Aziraphale would be earning points to get out of Purgatory early.</p><p>“Let’s play cards,” Gabriel said. “I’ll front you some money for chips.”</p><p>“I need to get some research done right now,” Aziraphale said. “Why don’t you go for a drive in one of your lovely automobiles?”</p><p>“Aww, I don’t want to do that by myself,” Gabriel said.</p><p>Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that the world-famous car collection was just for show. If he were a less charitable person, he’d think that Gabriel had chosen cars to collect because they were big and flashy and obviously expensive to the most casual observer, and not because he enjoyed cars in any way himself. But that would be absurd. Wouldn’t it?</p><p>He took a deep, cleansing breath. It had been his own decision to spend his sabbatical attempting to help Gabriel put his life back in order at their father’s family estate. He could leave any time he wanted, although he wasn’t sure what he’d do instead. Too bad he’d promised that gorgeous driving instructor he’d never get behind the wheel again. A trip to London for a lesson might be an intriguing way to kill some time. He’d have to keep that plan in reserve for when Gabriel got completely unbearable. In the meantime, Gabriel was the only living member of his family and Gabriel was in deep, deep trouble. If your family didn’t stick by you when you were in need, what was the point of family at all?</p><p>Aziraphale spotted his book on a side table. He was just about to explain why he needed to read it right this very second when Gabriel’s mobile phone buzzed. Of course, he kept it on his person, although Aziraphale wasn’t sure why. Once upon a time, everyone in the English-speaking world wanted advice from Gabriel Horn. These days, all anyone wanted from him was a pound of flesh.</p><p>Surprisingly, though, Gabriel sounded happy to hear from the caller. Aziraphale snatched his book and tried to get past his brother to make his escape. Gabriel cut him off, blocking the exit with his body.</p><p>“Did you hear that?” he asked Aziraphale. “Security at the gate says there are four people here from the employment agency looking for jobs. And you said that threatening the agency with a lawsuit wouldn’t work!”</p><p>“Ha, silly me,” Aziraphale said. “Well, it sounds like you have a busy afternoon ahead of you, and I’m—”</p><p>“Four people! Wait, I only have three openings. That’s good, though! Nothing like a little competition to bring out the best in people.”</p><p>“Marvelous. Now, if you could just scoot to the left a tad—”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Aziraphale, but I wish you’d get to the point.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “You English! You never say anything directly. Hey, why don’t you stay with me and give me a hand? Translate what the interviewees have to say from British to, you know, normal language.”</p><p>“I couldn’t dream of being of any assistance to a world-famous communicator such as yourself,” Aziraphale said, and then he sighed. Even he was getting tired of his growing passive-aggressiveness.</p><p>Still, it was incredibly annoying that the author of the Great Plan (and such sequels as “The Great Plan for Toddlers” and “The Great Plan: Make Your Heaven on Earth!”) had no listening skills. Aziraphale had read every Great Plan book as it was released, and he thought there was some value in it, just as there was some value in most self-help books. He’d read the testimonials from people who had gotten their lives on track, fixed their marriages, kicked bad habits, all due to the Great Plan. Mapping his life to some fixed and certain path wasn’t Aziraphale’s cup of tea – he preferred his philosophy to be more complex and a touch ineffable – but the Great Plan books hadn’t been terribly written. They were quite suitable for their audience, which made Aziraphale suspect they’d been ghostwritten, or at least that Gabriel’s original text had been heavily edited. There was no point in asking Gabriel. He thought he’d written the books, and it would be insulting to act as if he’d just been the pretty face the publisher slapped on the covers.</p><p>Gabriel had delivered tons of seminars himself, that was for certain. He didn’t lack a work ethic. Even now, with no prospects for the day in sight (or for any day in sight), Gabriel wore a navy blazer and striped tie over a blindingly white button-down. He posed in front of the closest mirror and adjusted his tie. There were mirrors on almost every wall of the house, something Aziraphale didn’t remember from his infrequent childhood visits. While Gabriel self-gazed, Aziraphale took the opportunity to hightail it out of the library, aiming for the kitchen and some light nibbles.</p><p>He passed through the foyer in time to hear the doorbell chime. Gabriel didn’t respond right away – it would probably take him a few minutes to remember that his last butler had sneaked out of the house and into the waiting arms of a tabloid reporter, leaving nobody on door duty. The resultant front-page photos of the estate, all about “the embezzler’s lavish lifestyle,” were exactly the kind of press Gabriel would forget about entirely.</p><p>The kitchen smelled divine, like fresh baked goods and cinnamon. The housekeeper and cook, Tracy Potts, was pulling a tray of scones out of the oven. Aziraphale risked burning his fingers to sample one off the tray.</p><p>“Aziraphale!” Tracy swatted him gently with her tea towel.</p><p>The scones were melt-in-his-mouth delicious, and he was quick to shower Tracy with compliments. He didn’t know what he’d do if Tracy quit. She’d worked for the estate for at least a decade. She’d been the caretaker most of that time, hiring workers to keep the place in shape. Aziraphale hadn’t been back in years, not since his father passed away. He and Gabriel inherited equal shares of the estate, which kept it out of the hands of Gabriel’s many creditors. Aziraphale had always liked the little town of Tadfield, with its cozy library, eclectic gift shops, and surprisingly good pub, but he’d never felt like he belonged on the Horn estate. Tracy, though, always welcomed him with open arms and a head full of local gossip.</p><p>She fluffed the bottom of her bob where the bright red waves skimmed her shoulders. “How’s the writing going?” she asked.</p><p>“I’ve barely settled in,” he said. He’d intended to work on the first draft of a novel about an inner-city vicarage in the 1940s, but now that he was out in the country, he was having difficulty describing the urban setting. Every time he looked out a window, he saw budding trees and querulous birds trying to one-up each other. “I can’t seem to keep myself planted in a chair to write. I must have spring fever.”</p><p>“In spring, a man’s fancy turns to love,” Tracy said in a singsong voice.</p><p>“A young man. I’m sure that rules me out.” Love and marriage weren’t in the cards for an overweight, middle-aged, gay man with the very solitary hobby of writing. He eyed the scones as Tracy transferred them to the cooling rack. “Perhaps I need more sustenance to concentrate better.”</p><p>“There’ll be nothing left for tomorrow’s breakfast if you keep popping in here.” But she found him a linen napkin to wrap around the hot scone.</p><p>“You spoil me, my dear.”</p><p>“Hmm, you could use a touch of spoiling. Your brother doesn’t know how lucky he is that you came to help us.” She cocked an ear to the voices in the foyer. Gabriel must’ve finally answered the door.</p><p>“That doesn’t sound like Anathema. She’s been Gabriel’s only visitor for weeks now.”</p><p>“Those are job applicants, believe it or not. Gabriel’s still searching for a butler and chauffeur.”</p><p>Tracy gasped dramatically. “Hell’s bells. The last butler was a disaster. He tried to photograph me in my negligee.”</p><p>A metaphorical devil on Aziraphale’s left shoulder gave him a poke and whispered that Tracy must’ve wandered through several rooms over several evenings in her negligee to manage to run into the butler. As always, Aziraphale ignored it. He’d always struggled to repress his catty, bitchy side, and he usually managed to keep the hurtful comments to himself.</p><p>Tracy pulled on his arm. “Please, go out there and make sure Gabriel doesn’t hire another voyeur.”</p><p>“I’m not really sure how I’d—”</p><p>“Please, Aziraphale.” She fluttered what had to be fake eyelashes at him. “You came here to help, didn’t you? Go help.”</p><p>Tracy had a point – and she also had exclusive access to the baked goods. One of Aziraphale’s non-negotiable personal rules was never annoy the cook. He took another scone – they were tiny scones, really, it would be fine – and went to see if Gabriel was on the verge of hiring an axe murderer.</p><p>He followed the sound of Gabriel’s voice to find the new arrivals in Gabriel’s office, which used to be his father’s office. Usually, Aziraphale never set foot in there. The door was open, though, so he stepped over the threshold so he could see what was going on.</p><p>“I’ll need excellent references,” Gabriel was saying. “Can’t go with my gut instinct for people, even though I used to run a major corporation. My half-brother was just reminding me that I can’t have any criminal associates, right, Aziraphale?”</p><p>Aziraphale couldn’t answer. His pulse was rocketing. His daydreams were coming to life. Maybe he was going mad, the lack of a structured schedule leaving him unmoored and delirious, imagining beautiful men visiting his self-imposed isolation in Tadfield.</p><p>“Crowley?” he mouthed, afraid of saying it too clearly and dispelling the dream.</p><p>Crowley’s smile in return stopped his breath. The man was absolutely gorgeous with that soft expression on his face highlighting the hollows under his sharp cheekbones. This was the first time Aziraphale had seen him without sunglasses, and his brown eyes were rimmed in brilliant, molten gold. Aziraphale leaned against the door frame. It would be humiliating to swoon in Gabriel’s office, of all places.</p><p>“Aziraphale.” Crowley sounded … oh, he sounded very pleased. “I thought you were in Paris.”</p><p>“I had a last minute change of plans.”</p><p>Was Crowley moving closer, or was that just wishful thinking? “Wait,” Crowley said, “<i>This</i> Gabriel’s your brother? Your half-brother. You’re Gabriel Horn’s brother?”</p><p>“Guilty as charged.” Was he trembling? Crowley couldn’t see him trembling. Most likely. He’d have to tone it down or he’d scare Crowley away. He cleared his throat. “I take it you’re here for the chauffeur position?”</p><p>“Hold on, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. “Did you bring pastry to an interview?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s face prickled with embarrassment, but even that rude comment couldn’t make him break eye contact with Crowley. “I hope that’s one of the perks of the job,” Crowley said as he cocked a hip in Aziraphale’s direction with devastating effect. “You bringing people a snack.”</p><p>Aziraphale was left speechless, all the words he knew failing him. Crowley was here in real life, flirting! With him!</p><p>“So how do you two know each other?” Gabriel asked.</p><p>“Yes,” said someone else, “how do you two know each other?”</p><p>Right, right, there were other people here, and they were strangers: a gawky, confused-looking young man, a quiet woman with slicked-back hair, and the short person who was speaking to Crowley while glaring at him with eyes like gem cutters.</p><p>“Ah, yes, Crowley is my driving instructor.” That sounded professional, which was crucial because Gabriel needed to hire Crowley no matter the cost.</p><p>Gabriel barked out a laugh. “He tries to teach you how to drive? That should merit danger pay. Anyone with that kind of courage is someone I want on my team.”</p><p>“I highly recommend him,” Aziraphale said, “without reservation.”</p><p>Crowley stared at him. “That’s … that’s very generous of you.”</p><p>Aziraphale felt his cheeks getting prickly again. “Of course, my dear fellow, it’s no less than you deserve. If you really want the job. I’m sure you’re the best candidate.”</p><p>Gabriel clapped his hands together loud enough to echo. “Excellent! The foundation has to approve, but I’ll tell Michael at the foundation office that we have Aziraphale’s personal recommendation, and it should go through just fine. Michael always liked you, for some reason.”</p><p>Aziraphale had no idea why, as he had no memory of ever meeting this Michael, but that was hardly important at this juncture.</p><p>“And the rest of us?” the short, intense person said. “Should we wait to hear back from you?”</p><p>“We need a new security guard right away,” Gabriel said. “Mr. Pulsifer, your references seem to be in order, so I’ll send them on to Michael. Welcome to the team.”</p><p>The boy with the glasses shook himself as if he’d been startled and stepped into Gabriel’s bone-crushing handshake. “Uh, thank you, sir.”</p><p>Crowley sidled up to Aziraphale, and it hadn’t been imagination, he really had been sneaking closer. He’d gotten quite close while Aziraphale had been watching the new security guard, and now Aziraphale could sense the body heat radiating off him. He smelled like minty soap. “He’s a good kid,” Crowley said under his breath. “You’ll like him.”</p><p>“Have you met him before today?” Aziraphale kept his eyes trained on Gabriel and the other newcomers. He didn’t want Gabriel to notice his reaction to Crowley. <i>Keep it under the radar</i>, he told himself.</p><p>“I knew him from the driving school,” Crowley said. “Are you, uh, visiting your brother for the day?”</p><p>“I’m living here, actually.” Aziraphale darted a glance up at Crowley’s incredible eyes. “Working on my book.”</p><p>“Good,” Crowley said. “Good, then we’ll … see a lot of each other.”</p><p>Oh my. Gabriel’s office was much too warm. And Aziraphale had completely missed the conversation between Gabriel and the butler he was hiring, the short person currently trying to out-squeeze Gabriel’s infamous handshake.</p><p>“That’s Beals,” Crowley told him. “I couldn’t tell you anything about their butlering.”</p><p>Aziraphale caught the pronoun usage. “As long as they aren’t a voyeur, I have permission to approve,” he said.</p><p>Crowley’s expression was gleeful. “Is there something in particular they shouldn’t be watching? I wouldn’t want to miss anything.”</p><p>“You’re a menace,” Aziraphale said, and he would’ve sworn Crowley preened in response. But maybe it was just that Crowley was so damn handsome. It was hard to say for sure.</p><p>“Is it a problem getting a rental property in town?” Beals asked.</p><p>“Yes, very much so,” Aziraphale admitted. “But, of course, as our butler, you’d live on the property. I believe the security guards are sharing the guest house on premises, isn’t that right, Gabriel?”</p><p>Gabriel nodded. “We haven’t refurbished the downstairs bedrooms, but there’s plenty of room for you, Beals, and you, Crowley. Pick whichever room you like.”</p><p>While Gabriel and Beals argued over their starting date, Crowley once again slinked his way into Aziraphale’s personal space.</p><p>“Hmm, staying in the house, in whichever room I like?” Crowley jutted out his hip again. He was definitely doing that on purpose, showing off his flat abs and his … flexibility was perhaps the most appropriate word. “I might need some help choosing what I like best,” he purred.</p><p>“You’re honestly a demon.” Aziraphale would probably be more convincing if he could get the ridiculous grin off his face, but it seemed to be stuck there.</p><p>“For fuck’s sake,” someone whispered. So much for flying below the radar. It was the quiet woman, who hadn’t said a word up until then.</p><p>“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Aziraphale said, letting his annoyance slip through.</p><p>“Marina Dagon,” she enunciated clearly. “Personal secretary.”</p><p>“The agency misled you,” Gabriel said. “I have no need for a personal secretary.”</p><p>“Can I ask how I don’t meet your expectations?” Marina Dagon said promptly.</p><p>“It’s not you at all,” Gabriel said. “I don’t need a secretary. Not since … not anymore. I have a holistic health advisor instead.”</p><p>Ms. Dagon was all sympathies. “May I ask how your last secretary disappointed you?”</p><p>“He testified,” Gabriel said. Aziraphale thought he heard Beals snort, but the new butler seemed keen on examining Gabriel’s collection of antique penny banks lining the walls.</p><p>“Actually,” Gabriel continued, “I used to have two secretaries. They were always at each other’s throats, it was all part of the fun. But I don’t have that life anymore. No more international speaking tours, no more skiing the Tetons, no more board of directors’ meetings or symphony orchestras begging for my spare change. That’s all behind me. Legally, you know, I could leave the property, I could go anywhere I want, but …” He shrugged. “I have retired to the countryside for an introspective life of meditation.”</p><p><i>Oh, Lord</i>, Aziraphale thought. The little imaginary devil on his shoulder insisted there was absolutely no way a man with Gabriel’s lack of tact had written all those compassionate Great Plan books himself. He gritted his teeth and ignored it.</p><p>“Mr. Horn,” Ms. Dagon said, her voice cracking with emotion, “if I may say so, sir, you need me more than ever. Now is the time you need me, sir.”</p><p>“Really?” Aziraphale asked. “For what?”</p><p>“Rehabilitation!” Ms. Dagon inhaled and drew herself to her full height. “It is well past time to get your true story out there.”</p><p>“Oh, my story is out there,” Gabriel said. “That’s the whole problem.”</p><p>“Your old story is out there.” Ms. Dagon had full command of the room now. “It’s time for your new story. Your new life. And that’s why you need a private secretary who has faith in you.”</p><p>“Yes, but—”</p><p>“I’m not talking about PR, Mr. Horn. I’m not talking about a mealy-mouthed publicist. You’ve been right to avoid those evils. But a private secretary isn’t tainted with commercial hypocrisy. I can get the new you out there.”</p><p>“The new me?”</p><p>“It’s time,” Ms. Dagon declared, “that everyone just got over it!”</p><p>“Yes!” Gabriel cried. “Exactly! Aziraphale, isn’t that exactly what I’ve been saying?”</p><p>“You’re chastened,” Ms. Dagon announced. “You’re only human, just like the rest of us. You regret the effect of what you’ve done, but that’s the past, and we can’t go on wallowing in the past.”</p><p>Gabriel’s forehead creased in thought. “Would I have to give back the money?”</p><p>“Never!” Ms. Dagon’s eyes flashed. “You’re explaining your common humanity, not feeding the multitudes. We’ll start small. Girl Guide sack races on the lawn, church socials meeting here with the squire of Tadfield, a gentleman worthy of respect and honor.”</p><p>“You’re hired!” Gabriel said.</p><p>Aziraphale rubbed his temples. Suddenly, he could feel a headache coming on.</p><p>“Everything alright?” Crowley asked him quietly.</p><p>“Of course,” he replied. He didn’t want Crowley to think he wasn’t wanted here. “Let me point you to the garages. I’m sure you’re looking forward to getting your hands on those automobiles.”</p><p>“More than you can imagine,” Crowley said. “How’s the Bentley?”</p><p>“I’m afraid I don’t know one car from another.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve been told I should stay away from them.”</p><p>“Sounds like terrible advice.” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, emphasizing the unbroken line of his throat and the silky smooth skin that dipped between his collarbones. “Uh, you know, if you wanted, we could, I dunno, start the driving lessons again?”</p><p>“What?” Gabriel had overheard them. “You’re not going to let Aziraphale drive one of my cars.”</p><p>“Please, Gabriel, Crowley’s a professional,” Aziraphale said snappishly.</p><p>“I absolutely know what I’m doing,” Crowley said. “Leave it to me.” He spoke differently to Gabriel, confidently, forcefully. The flirting didn’t seem to be his universal way of communicating. Perhaps … it was a leap of logic, but perhaps the bantering was only for Aziraphale.</p><p>“Hmm, I’d better get a copy of your license,” Gabriel said, although he sounded mollified.</p><p>Aziraphale said his goodbyes and forced himself to leave the office while Gabriel finished up the paperwork. No use pushing his luck by hanging about, ready to say something inane just to hear Crowley’s reply. He headed straight to the kitchen. His heartbeat was still erratic and his fingers were still trembling. A dreamlike haze clouded his peripheral vision. A strong cup of tea seemed in order.</p><p>Tracy accosted him as soon as she spotted him. “Who is that tall drink of water making eyes at you?”</p><p>She must’ve been spying, but that was to be expected of any housekeeper worth their salt. “That’s Crowley, and you must mean that I was making eyes at him.”</p><p>“I know what I mean, love. Now, who is Crowley?”</p><p>Gabriel never wandered into the kitchen. With no reason to camouflage his feelings, Aziraphale bounced on his toes, lighter than air, his grin wide enough to hurt his cheeks. “He’s the new chauffeur. Isn’t that marvelous?”</p><p>As Tracy put on the kettle, he peered out the doorway, hoping for one more glimpse of Crowley’s dark, reddish curls. Would they feel soft, flowing effortlessly between his fingers, or would he need to tug on them, pulling Crowley’s head towards him ever so slightly? Good heavens, he had it bad. And now he was going to see Crowley every day while he took care of the cars. Washing them. Waxing them. His taut arse tilted up as he stretched those long arms to reach across the hood.</p><p>Oh, my. This might be a problem. Maybe he should tell Gabriel not to hire Crowley after all. That would the safest thing to do. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about … distractions.</p><p>“Whatever you’re thinking, stop right now,” Tracy said. “There’s nothing wrong with admiring a man’s body. I’m sure your Crowley would take it as a complement.”</p><p>He wasn’t sure that Tracy was right, but Crowley must be accustomed to being admired. And Aziraphale could keep himself in check. They’d hardly see each other, really. Aziraphale didn’t have any reason to check on the car collection. Yes, they’d be living in the same house, maybe eating meals together occasionally, but Crowley had clinched the job. He didn’t need to seek out Aziraphale or flatter him anymore. Crowley was too handsome to fade into the background, but no doubt, Aziraphale would eventually get comfortable with seeing him around. They could wave at each other. While Crowley washed a car in the drive. Splashing around soapy water. Wearing a tight-fitting shirt that showed the definition of his chest muscles, the inward curve of that fit stomach.</p><p>“Do you know,” he said to Tracy, “it seems a shame to have a famous car collection at my disposal and know nothing about it. It’s a unique research opportunity, and I should make better use of it.”</p><p>She patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve always liked that about you, love. Never afraid to learn something new.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Finally, Aziraphale and Crowley reunite! Thanks again to freyjawriter24 for being an awesome beta reader. And thanks to you all for reading!</p><p>There's a wonderful bookstore in my town called Yesterday's Muse. On Saturday, I stopped by (okay, I didn't stop by, I hung around, it's a bookstore) and found an Advance Reader's Copy of <i>Raising Steam</i> by Terry Pratchett. Like, right on the shelf there, waiting for me! So I bought it. The guy working there (not the owner, I never manage to meet him and he may be fictional) was on the phone about sending books out for binding repairs, and I wanted to ask him if I could just eavesdrop for a while, but it seemed rude. "Can I sit here and listen to you work all day? Another customer might need a book repaired!" Totally creepy, right? Although I'm still worried that the owner might exist and find out this guy sold his ARC of a Pratchett book.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dee hated being crammed in the back seat of Duke’s Fiesta, but he knew better than to complain. Duke and the Lizardman up front had pushed their bucket seats as far back as possible to give them more legroom, and Dee was losing circulation in his lower extremities. They were just idling on the side of the road, in a spot partially obscured by a hedge, but Duke and Lizardman were losing patience with their stakeout of the Horn estate, and he didn’t want to set them off with a request to stretch his legs. </p><p>They’d been circling Tadfield in the nondescript beige Fiesta for over a month, trying not to be noticed, all in hopes of getting a glimpse of Gabriel Horn. Originally, they thought they’d be able to figure out Horn’s schedule based on his comings and goings, but there weren’t any. The security guards went into town regularly to hit the pub, and twice a week, the redheaded housekeeper took her car to the grocery for supplies. But Gabriel Horn was a recluse. Dee was asking himself if it was worth it, spending his days in the moldy smelling Ford eating food that came in wrappers with Duke and Lizardman, who were alright blokes to have a pint with after work but, in retrospect, not the best long-term planners.</p><p>He wished he had a job to go to instead, but that was Horn’s fault, wasn’t it? The stock options Dee had been so proud to earn were worthless. Whereas Horn lived the life of a millionaire recluse behind gated mansion walls manned by security guards. Although he couldn’t blame Horn for settling in as if he was under siege. If Dee ever got his hands on Horn, he’d shake him until his money came out his ears.</p><p>Dee had lived his entire life in the hamlet of Pottersville, and Pottersville was in the Great Plan business. Most of the town worked in the Archangel offices, or used to work there before the scandal of Gabriel Horn using the corporation as a personal charge account bankrupted the operation and tainted the Great Plan forever. Dee and his parents used to have well-paid, cushy jobs in sales and marketing. Dee had been a social media manager. Ever since he’d been laid off, he was having trouble thinking in anything but 280-character blurbs. “Gabriel Horn owes Pottersville a lot of money” was the most prominent mental tweet, along with “All the stores in Pottersville are closing” and “I don’t know how to pay back my student loans; meanwhile, Horn isn’t paying anyone back a fucking penny.”</p><p>Besides partially compensating them in questionable stock options, Archangel had lied about their pension plans, and they hadn’t been vested like they thought they were. Archangel had lied about a lot, but trying to collect on those false promises in court was a sucker’s game. In the long, long line of creditors, the average Archangel employee had about as much legal pull as a cockroach. It was one thing to know you were an interchangeable cog in a corporate machine; it was another thing to be disposed of as easily as shucking off a jacket. Every day he woke up on his parents’ couch was just another reminder of how disposable he was.</p><p>“Look, someone’s leaving the compound,” Lizardman said in his gravelly voice, leaning forward to squint at an oncoming car on the horizon.</p><p>The black car that zoomed by them looked like a stylish, old-timey hearse. It had to be going over 70 mph, and it didn’t slow down as it took the curve.</p><p>“That’s not the housekeeper,” Duke said needlessly as he jammed the transmission into gear.</p><p>Dee piped up from the rear. “That’s an antique car, isn’t it? One of Horn’s private collection, the greedy bastard.”</p><p>“Selfish fucker,” Lizardman said. “Duke, can’t you go any faster?”</p><p>But the Fiesta was no match for the sleek black road machine in front of them. Duke barrelled straight through a puddle, and Dee was momentarily thrown when the back tire hit the pothole and rattled the economy car, shaking his skull. When Dee looked through the windscreen again, the black car was nowhere in sight.</p><p>Duke hit the brakes. “He must’ve taken a turn here. But which way?”</p><p>“Dunno,” Lizardman said. “It wasn’t Horn. It was some scrawny bloke in sunglasses.”</p><p>“Fuck.” Duke slammed the heels of his hands on the steering wheel. “We’re getting bloody nowhere.”</p><p>“Go back to our spot,” Lizardman said. “The flash bastard has to come back that way to return the car.”</p><p>Only when they got back to their hidey hole on the side of the road, there was another vehicle there instead – a big, fat Range Rover, engine ticking as it cooled. Duke tried to swerve around it, but the Range Rover’s door flew open, and a heavyset, bald man in an immaculately tailored brown suit jumped down and blocked the road, forcing Duke to a stop.</p><p>“Fuck, we’re caught!” Dee cried. The last few months of his life flashed before his eyes. Losing his job, losing his girlfriend, losing his flat, and now he was going to lose his freedom. His only regret was that he never got the chance to punch Gabriel Horn in the balls.</p><p>A woman exited the passenger side of the Range Rover. She was a large woman with broad shoulders, and her tailored suit was gray. Her shoes were very sensible, and they looked like they’d be equally good for chasing Dee down or sweeping his feet out from under him. The bald man waltzed over and tapped on Duke’s window. Duke rolled it down.</p><p>“Is there a problem, officer?” Duke asked.</p><p>“Officer?” The bald man’s nostrils flared. “I’m not with law enforcement.” His posh accent dripped with condescension, as if the very idea of being a police officer was shockingly bourgeoise.</p><p>“Then what the hell do you want?” Duke said menacingly, and Lizardman squared his shoulders to show off his bulk. Dee, who had the physique of a vaping teenage Youtuber, tried to melt into the upholstery.</p><p>The bald man smiled. It was a cold smile. Dee would call it smarmy. The tall woman folded her arms across her chest. Her lack of smile was very noticeable.</p><p>“Gentlemen, I think it’s time we joined forces,” the bald man said.</p><p>That ruled out these two being Horn’s hired goons. Despite their size and general air of menace, they didn’t look like hired goons. Too rich, too self-important. The kind of people who inherited money and called themselves “self-made.” Range Rover drivers, in short.</p><p>Duke blew out a loud breath. “Join forces? Don’t know whatchour talking about.”</p><p>The man rested a forearm on the roof of the Fiesta, above Duke’s window. “My colleague and I have a strategy aimed at Gabriel Horn that doesn’t appear to be working out, and my guess is that you gentlemen also have some sort of plan in mind involving Gabriel Horn that also isn’t working out.”</p><p>Duke widened his dark eyes. “Gabriel who?”</p><p>The bald man’s smile grew colder, practically arctic. “Come now, you three have been staking out the Horn estate for weeks. We have enough photos of you to fill a bulletin board, isn’t that right, Uriel?”</p><p>The woman, Uriel, growled. Goosebumps broke out on Dee’s forearms. Teaming up with Duke and Lizardman was bad enough. These two were a whole new level of trouble.</p><p>“We have a nice, warm vehicle big enough for all of us,” the bald man said. “Why not come in? We can discuss the situation together and decide how to pool our resources.”</p><p>“Who are you, mate?” Lizardman asked.</p><p>“Call me Sandalphon,” the bald man said. “And you are?”</p><p>Duke pointed at himself. “Duke.” Then he pointed around the interior of the Fiesta. “Lizardman. Double D. We’re not giving you any more than that.”</p><p>Sandalphon nodded and headed towards the Range Rover, Uriel in tow. Lizardman’s eyes narrowed sceptically. “You think we should hear them out?”</p><p>“It’s either that or spend another month watching the ditzy redheaded bitch go shopping,” Duke said. “We can listen. I’m not gonna commit to nothing.”</p><p>Dee didn’t think this was the best plan, but nobody asked him. At least it would give him a chance to stretch his cramped legs and escape the Fiesta’s stench. He followed Duke and Lizardman to the Range Rover. The three of them piled into the back seat, and Dee was only slightly resentful of the fact that the back seat was roomy enough for them to sit comfortably. It smelled like new car. The air was circulating despite the rare April sunshine beating through the windows. He had to admit, this was a much better vehicle for stakeouts.</p><p>“So what’s your deal with Horn?” Duke said abruptly.</p><p>Sandalphon turned from the driver’s seat to face them. “We’re investors, as you may have guessed,” he said. “Some might call us venture capitalists, but we prefer to be called angel investors. We’ve had our wins and our losses, but rarely have we trusted a company as much as we trusted Archangel and that manipulative sonofabitch Horn.”</p><p>At this point, both Uriel and Lizardman made growling noises. To Dee, it sounded in stereo. </p><p>Sandalphon reached over and patted Uriel’s meaty thigh. “I’m afraid we really overextended ourselves with Horn. Uriel and I are living on the charity of our relatives, which has been very unpleasant, as you can imagine.”</p><p>“Sure,” Dee said, taking a good look around the well-appointed Range Rover with the leather seats and sunroof. Lizardman jabbed an elbow in his ribs to shut him up.</p><p>Sandalphon kept talking as if Dee had never interrupted. “As you know, it takes capital to make capital, and capital is what we don’t have at the moment. All sources, familial and institutional, have been exhausted. Long after Horn was taking money out of Archangel, he was urging us to put money in. Only here, with our hands on Gabriel Horn – yes, Uriel, on his throat – can we hope to recoup our losses.”</p><p>Uriel finally spoke, with a hostile intensity that made Dee’s corner shop lunch threaten to crawl up his oesophagus. “You three may be satisfied beating the hell out of the bastard, but we need him to put the blood back in our veins.”</p><p>“Beat him up?” Lizardman said.</p><p>“Uriel and I thought … I suppose we assumed incorrectly. If physical revenge isn’t your plan, what are you after instead?”</p><p>Lizardman shrugged, trying to be cagey about ten minutes too late.</p><p>“There are plenty of others with that idea,” Sandalphon said. Boy howdy, did he like the sound of his own voice. “There’s a man who sits in the lobby of the Four Seasons with a whip, tells anybody who will listen that he’s a former stockholder who was wiped out. He intends to whip Gabriel Horn until he runs out of skin. How he intends to do that in the lobby of the Four Seasons, I have no clue. But you three,” and here he raked them with his eyes before smiling again, “you have more ambition than the man with the whip. How about you show us yours and I’ll show you mine?”</p><p>“How about you go first?” Duke barked.</p><p>Sandalphon shrugged. “Of course, if you like. Let me start by saying that Horn didn’t drain the life out of Archangel because of personal need. He did it out of an excess of personal greed. Horn was born rich, like his father before him, and his father before him. And despite the devastation he caused all around him, Horn is still rich. Some friends and relatives who trusted him have a bit less than they assumed they’d have at this point, but Horn himself is resting on a fortune. Like a dragon on his hoard.”</p><p>“That’s what we want,” Duke said. “Our fair share of the hoard.”</p><p>Ugh, Sandalphon’s slimy grin made Dee want to swim in hand sanitizer. “It’s always optimal,” Sandalphon said, “when partners share a common goal. Now, our scheme is dependent on Horn’s offshore holdings, untouched by the American authorities, untouchable by our courts. You’ve heard them called tax havens.”</p><p>“Right-o,” Lizardman said, leaning forward eagerly. “You mean like where dictators stash their loot before they get exiled. Numbered accounts.”</p><p>“Exactly,” Sandalphon said. “Untraceable, untappable numbered accounts.”</p><p>“Not untraceable with our hands around Horn’s throat,” Uriel said. </p><p>Dee sat up straighter, intrigued. He didn’t like these angel investors. They made his blood run cold. But they also sounded like excellent long-term planners. </p><p>“We understand how these financial havens work,” Sandalphon said. “Once we get our hands on Horn, we can force him to make irrevocable transfers from his offshore accounts to our accounts. All we need is an Internet connection in front of him.”</p><p>“So why not hack into his accounts?” Dee asked, earning him another elbow jab.</p><p>“Certainly not,” Sandalphon said primly. “We’re sure that Horn himself can make the transfers, nice and proper. After all, he knows his own passwords and account numbers, and which Cayman Island banks hold his accounts. We just have to … persuade him it would be in his best interest.”</p><p>“You’re gonna put his feet to the fire,” Duke said.</p><p>Uriel rolled her eyes. “We considered that, but it’s hard to explain a house fire to the authorities. There are other ways. Now it’s your turn, though. What do you want?”</p><p>Dee sealed his mouth shut. These angel investors could turn them in to the police, and Horn would probably reward them for it. Then again, Dee could try to turn them in. He reminded himself to memorise their number plate when he left the vehicle. </p><p>Duke had no hesitation. “We’re gonna hold him for ransom.”</p><p>Sandalphon tilted his head, considering. “Kidnapping?”</p><p>“The ransom isn’t just for us,” Duke said. “Archangel laid off half our town. The ransom goes to every one of our buddies he kicked to the curb. We figure ten million will cover our pain and suffering.”</p><p>“Admirable,” Sandalphon said. “I hadn’t expected such … selflessness. But I’m afraid there are problems with your idea.”</p><p>“We know,” Duke said. “He never fucking leaves the compound.”</p><p>Uriel growled again. “And who in their right mind would pay ten million for that lying piece of trash?”</p><p>“And how would they get it?” Sandalphon asked. “Let’s say the housekeeper decided to pay it. What assets would she use? If she tried to draw on Horn’s accounts, if she found ten million pounds from anything at all belonging to Horn and brought it into the country, the courts would take it away from her long before she could get it to you.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Duke said. Dee hadn’t realised that either. </p><p>Maybe this was a sign that he should walk away, forget the whole thing. Drop his vendetta against Horn and try to find another job or something. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of that while he stewed in his own juices in this crappy little town, waiting for something to happen.</p><p>“If you’ve got a foolproof plan, what the hell do you need us for?” Lizardman asked.</p><p>“Our plan has a better likelihood of success, but that’s not the same thing as the actuality of success. But with three motivated, imaginative, <i>selfless</i> fellows such as yourselves joined to our plan, success may be on the horizon.”</p><p>“While we’re having our way with Horn’s offshore accounts, we’ll throw you fifteen million,” Uriel added.</p><p>Fifteen million pounds! Hell, that was probably walking around money to Horn. It wasn’t even ethical for one man to have that much money to himself. Dee was doing the world a favour by distributing it. A modern day Robin Hood, he was. All thoughts of job searching fled his mind.</p><p>“What I’ve been thinking recently,” Duke said, surprising Dee, “is that we’re gonna have to go through those walls and drag him outta there.”</p><p>“There, you see?” Sandalphon shared a look of victory with Uriel. “Great minds do think alike.”</p><p> </p><p>By ten o’clock that evening, Crowley was settled into the small bedroom on the ground floor of Eden’s Garden. He’d unpacked his few belongings, which mostly consisted of the basics of his wardrobe, expensive staples like tightly fitting black denims that he mixed with trendy, cheaper shirts. Fortunately, there was no chauffeur’s uniform he’d be forced to wear, just an ugly hat he “misplaced” when he took the Bentley out for a spin.</p><p>The room was as small and as empty as his flat in London. There were no framed photographs or holiday knickknacks – he wasn’t a memento kind of person. It was always better not to think too hard about the past or the future. Live in the present, that was his motto, not that it had gotten him any further than the Great Plan had gotten Beals. But everybody needed a shit coping mechanism.</p><p>In the present moment, he was stuck in the former servants’ quarters listening to Beals’s chainsaw snore through the thin wall, trying to decide if he should raid the kitchen. Beals seemed to have become an early-to-bed type sometime in the last seven years, but Crowley wasn’t used to going to sleep this early, and getting to drive the Bentley had him all keyed up. The lady drove like a dream come true, just like he knew she would. A drink would settle him down, and he wanted to head to the kitchen, but he didn’t want Aziraphale to think he was wandering the house looking for him like some creepy stalker.</p><p>The thing was, the flirty banter he and Aziraphale were developing was fun. Crowley didn’t want to ruin it. He liked talking to Aziraphale, whose barely restrained contempt of Gabriel glided just underneath his polite exterior. Aziraphale was clever, but he never talked down to Crowley. No, he caught onto everything Crowley said with that contagious smile of his that hid nothing. Crowley liked Aziraphale’s unrestrained smile.</p><p>Oh fuck, what kind of thought was that to have?</p><p>He couldn’t help it. Aziraphale smiled like a little kid in one of those unboxing videos. He glowed all over and couldn’t stay still. Nobody could resist that. Crowley was tempted to get him a present to unwrap to see how he’d react. Some kind of joke gift. Something funny. He definitely wasn’t thinking of anything romantic like flowers and chocolates.</p><p>Gosh, imagine how Aziraphale would react if he unwrapped a box of luxury chocolates. </p><p>One of those hole-in-the-wall shops in Tadfield must sell chocolate. Tomorrow, he’d find out for sure.</p><p>Tonight, though, he was being ridiculous. He was living here. He was allowed to go to the kitchen for a drink. He didn’t have to steal the liquor. A glass of water would be fine. That had nothing to do with Aziraphale, who was probably sound asleep in any case. It was just water, for fuck’s sake.</p><p>The upshot of all the overthinking was that, when Crowley entered the kitchen and spotted Aziraphale with his head in the pantry cabinet, his arse jiggling under a hideously fluffy cardigan as he searched for something, Crowley was unable to do anything but stare, slack jawed, for a full minute. </p><p>Then Aziraphale turned around and screeched in surprise. It stunned Crowley into screeching in echo, jumping back, stumbling, and banging his funny bone on the kitchen counter. Pins and needles engulfed his arm. He clenched his teeth, refusing to let his expression give anything away. He was cool, he was totally cool. </p><p>Aziraphale patted a hand over his heart. “Goodness, you scared me.”</p><p>“Oh, uh, yeah, just …” There was an end to that sentence that would make sense, but the words wouldn’t come. He waved his uninjured arm around the kitchen instead. “Thirsty,” he finally said.</p><p>Aziraphale beamed sunshine, like he’d unboxed the finest of Swiss truffles instead of finding Crowley under the wrapping. Fuck, he was done for. It wasn’t even fair.</p><p>“As a matter of fact,” Aziraphale said in a conspiratorial whisper, “earlier today, I stashed a few bottles up here from the wine cellar. Care to share?”</p><p>From the wine cellar? Aziraphale was willing to share expensive wine with the staff? Crowley tried to look casual and leaned on the counter behind him. The counter’s edge collided with his lumbar spine like the blade of a bulldozer. He braced his knees to stay upright. “I could do with a glass,” he said calmly, doing his best to sound like whatever the opposite of screeching was.</p><p>Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders. “Excellent. Now, if I know Tracy, it shouldn’t be too hard to find a screw.”</p><p>“To find a …” Crowley swallowed. “Corkscrew. Yup.”</p><p>Aziraphale pulled a bottle from the pantry and held it up, label front, for Crowley’s approval. It was in French. Crowley nodded. He didn’t know fuckall about vineyards or vintages, but he liked wine and he’d always wanted to learn more about it. He didn’t want Aziraphale to think the new chauffeur was an alcohol abuser, though. One glass. He hardly ever drank with other people – he was the driver, he drank at home alone – so he’d have to be careful. He didn’t want to unwittingly blab something about Beals’s plan.</p><p>Two hours and two bottles later, he lounged half on, half off the surprisingly comfortable sofa in the library, one foot on the carpet. The wine was rich and fruity on his tongue, not too rough with tannins and not too sugary. He downed a healthy sip mid-argument.</p><p>“Elephants,” he said. “They have empathy, I’m telling you. They worry. It’s like … it’s like that Queen song says.”</p><p>Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “What’s a Queen song?”</p><p>“No, no, no, I don’t believe you. You’re putting me on, you know exactly what Queen is. I mean, you’re a …” He trailed off, spinning a lazy forearm in a circle.</p><p>“A gay man of a certain age?” Aziraphale said from where he slouched in an armchair, feet propped on an ottoman. </p><p>“Right. That.” It was like Aziraphale could pluck his thoughts out of the air. “In London! How is it that you missed seeing Queen?”</p><p>“I must’ve been occupied with my studies,” Aziraphale said with an adorable level of pique. No, not adorable, a normal level of pique was what he meant.</p><p>“Pfft. You were a student, not a corpse,” Crowley said roughly to counter any adorableness hanging about.</p><p>“I’ve often had trouble telling the difference.” </p><p>Aziraphale hummed in satisfaction with his own weak joke. He was slurring his words, and his hands had disappeared inside the sleeves of the soft cardigan, only darting out to hold up his wineglass for polite sips. His shoes were off, and he wore argyle socks that Crowley couldn’t stop staring at.</p><p>“You’re not at university anymore, professor,” Crowley said. Then he squinted at Aziraphale, making sure his outline wasn’t getting blurry. “How come you’re not in Paris anyway?”</p><p>“Oh, that.” Aziraphale tilted his head. “You remember that?”</p><p>“’Course I remember. Hard to get into the program, you said. All expenses paid, how could I forget that?” </p><p>Aziraphale sighed. “It was an unusual opportunity, yes. But Gabriel was isolated out here, and …”</p><p>“And?” Crowley pried. </p><p>“If you must know, I gave it away.” His perfect, unmarred fingers pulled at the edges of the cardigan’s frayed sleeves. “My colleague, Eve, is such a talented writer, and she’d never been to Paris before, and, oh, you know teaching assistants basically work for starvation wages. I found out that she was on the waiting list, so I gave her my spot on the retreat.” He sat up, planting his feet so his posture was straight as a soldier’s. “I hope I did the right thing.”</p><p>Words caught in Crowley’s throat. He knew it wasn’t the same, but he tried to imagine, when he was younger, someone giving up their shot at racing to let Crowley take the formula car around the track. There wasn’t a driver alive who would do that for someone else. Aziraphale truly was a guardian angel. </p><p>There was a vertical line creasing the middle of Aziraphale’s forehead, like he really didn’t know how generous he was. Crowley doubted Gabriel had ever been that conflicted about the millions of pounds he’d siphoned out of Archangel. And now Aziraphale was spending his semester off keeping the wanker company.</p><p>“I don’t think you could do the wrong thing,” he said. </p><p>Aziraphale blushed. He was already flushed from the wine, which stained his lips burgundy. It contrasted with his platinum curls. Why was he so pretty? So pretty, even in that horrible oatmeal-colored jumper. It looked soft, though. Cosy. </p><p>“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “That’s an exaggeration, I’m sure, but it does make me feel better.”</p><p>Crowley tried to wink, missed, and gave it up. “No problem, angel.”</p><p>Aziraphale got very quiet. He looked away, as if studying the titles on the nearest bookshelf, and then stole a sidelong glance at Crowley. It made Crowley feel scrutinised. He pushed himself upright, trying to ignore the heat flooding his cheeks.</p><p>“Something wrong?” he asked Aziraphale.</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled. “No. Not at all.”</p><p>Damn, he was drunk as a skunk. Still, another half a glass wouldn’t go amiss. Hardly make any difference at this point. He managed to get to his feet. His gait was a bit unsteady, his hips swaying more than usual, so he couldn’t blame Aziraphale for staring as he wound his way to the table next to Aziraphale’s chair. He may be staggering, but he was doing it with style. </p><p>Only before he could grab the bottle, the masochistic portion of his mind forced a replay of their conversation. “No problem, angel.” Fuck, had he just said … Fuck! He stepped wrong and the carpet, the goddamn backstabbing floor covering, loomed up to trip him. Of course, his shins hit the ottoman, which was ganging up on him with the carpet. Bloody traitor furniture. He threw out a hand to arrest his fall, but too late. Down he went, right at Aziraphale’s feet.</p><p>This, this right here, was why he usually drank alone. He’d been enjoying himself, too. Well, he couldn’t keep his eyes closed forever. He cracked his eyelids open to see Aziraphale crouched on the floor next to him, looking him over from head to toe. </p><p>“My goodness, are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale said. “That was quite a spill.”</p><p>“Fine, I’m fine.” Crowley made his face stony. He was not going to do anything stupid like act like he had emotions in front of Aziraphale. </p><p>“As long as you’re not hurt.” Aziraphale talked haltingly into his own arm.</p><p>Through the time-honored method of squinting one eye, Crowley zeroed in on Aziraphale’s face. “Are you laughing at me? You are!”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head, setting his blond curls to bouncing. “No, I’m not.”</p><p>“You’re lying directly to my face.” Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off Aziraphale’s chest rising and falling as he stifled his laughter. “Here I thought you were an angel. I know better now. Laughing at my misfortune.”</p><p>Aziraphale covered his face and giggled. “No … I’m … oh, give me a moment.”</p><p>“Bastard,” Crowley teased.  </p><p>“At least let me help you up.” </p><p>Aziraphale ducked down and reached for his hand, and Crowley was paralysed with confusion. Should he take Aziraphale’s hand in his? Or let Aziraphale grab his wrist? Or – and this was a stretch – stop bloody overthinking everything so he wasn’t constantly staring into Aziraphale’s eyes like a starving cat drooling over an innocent mouse who didn’t know any better? He held up his hand and let Aziraphale tangle their fingers together. His coherent thoughts stuttered out … warm … soft … so soft … so warm …</p><p>Aziraphale boosted him up one-handedly with a simple tug, as if he weighed no more than a child. That was … Crowley scrambled to his feet, trying not to sway too much. He’d noticed Aziraphale’s broad chest and shoulders, couldn’t help but notice, really, but he’d never before connected those thoughts with the concept of “holy shit, he’s strong.”</p><p>Fuck, he was too bloody drunk for this. He had to leave before he did something monumentally stupid, like lean in closer and sniff Aziraphale’s neck, an idea that his brain was trying to present as close to genius.</p><p>“I, uh, think I’d better head to bed,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll be useless tomorrow morning.”</p><p>“Oh my goodness, is it really after midnight?” Aziraphale began to fuss with his cardigan, pulling it in spots and smoothing it in others. “I didn’t mean to keep you up so late.”</p><p>“My pleasure, aaaa … Aziraphale.” Phew, caught himself that time. “Let me know if you need a ride anywhere tomorrow.”</p><p>That earned him one of those radiant smiles. “I will. Sweet dreams, my dear.”</p><p>Crowley almost told him that he never dreamed, but that would probably start another argument, and that would probably require another bottle, and Crowley would end up passed out on the sofa. If he wanted to repeat a night like tonight, he had to be calm and casual, not act weird and overstay his welcome. </p><p>He slinked back to his room, only leaning on the wall slightly to stay upright. All in all, he thought he left a decent impression. It had gone well, hadn’t it? Now he needed to figure out how to get his music to play in the Bentley so he could lure Aziraphale into the car to listen to Queen.</p><p>If he had any dreams that night, he didn’t remember them the next morning. Despite the hangover, he was feeling the buzz of his first good night’s sleep in years. He thought he’d have trouble falling asleep with the lack of blinking lights and horns honking and busses backfiring, but the opposite had proven true. This country living wasn’t so bad. Greenery, fresh air, wide open roads with graceful curves. Even the weather was perfect in Tadfield. </p><p>A thought began to bloom, one that became more and more persistent. Maybe he should sabotage Beals’s plan a little. Not a lot, no. They should definitely steal the cars and stick it to Gabriel. But what was the rush? They didn’t yet have a place to stash the cars after they stole them. Crowley decided this plan needed more time to germinate. Beals needed to think it through at least once more. They could wait to make their move when the time was right, no matter how long that took.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks again to freyjawriter24 for the beta read!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: Gabriel does some weight-shaming of Aziraphale in this chapter. There are 2 scenes in this chapter, and Gabriel is in the first scene. The upshot of the scene is that Gabriel is an assmonkey, Anathema has put him on a special diet to make him feel special, and Tracy volunteers Aziraphale and Crowley to shop for the diet's provisions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The writing was not going well, to say the least. Aziraphale was editing the scene he’d written the day before, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what point he’d been trying to make. The robins and wrens chirping outside the library window were very distracting. His icepick headache from staying up late drinking with Crowley wasn’t helping matters, not that he had regrets. Crowley was such an interesting conversationalist! He had gossip on every corrupt politician and ageing celebrity in London. He even knew where the bodies were buried, figuratively speaking, during the construction of the hellish M25. It was amazing what information a person could pick up from driving people around. Aziraphale could’ve listened to him talk all night.</p>
<p>Crowley had called him “angel,” but Aziraphale was trying not to dwell on that, wanting desperately not to read too much into it. Crowley had been joking around. Logically, Aziraphale knew it couldn’t be a term of affection. Gorgeous, fascinating men hadn’t been interested in him when he was younger and better looking, so therefore, the idea of Crowley falling for him now that he was older and fatter was patently ridiculous. </p>
<p>And look here, he’d used the word “tempting” three times in this scene. Honestly, he might as well delete every word he’d typed yesterday. Aziraphale suspected his heart was no longer in his novel in progress, that the muse had moved on and was prodding him to start something new, something less depressing. Perhaps a cup of tea with Tracy would help.</p>
<p>He almost collided with the butler, Beals, in the hall. The butler’s coat hung long and oversized on their frame, but they were pulling it off regardless. Beals was carrying the most ludicrous cocktail Aziraphale had ever seen. The curvy, figure eight glass on the silver tray was larger than a pint, and whatever it contained was purple with strange flakes floating in it. Pineapple chunks the size of his tongue were skewered on oversized toothpicks alongside neon pink cherries. </p>
<p>It was only ten in the morning, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder if this absurd concoction was a hangover cure for Crowley. He followed Beals down the hall to find out. Beals shot him a dirty look as a greeting. Aziraphale was determined not to take it personally. He didn’t need the services of a butler himself. Also, Gabriel hadn’t interrupted him once all morning. If Beals and Ms. Dagon wanted to monopolise Gabriel’s time, Aziraphale certainly wasn’t going to object.</p>
<p>Beals knocked on Gabriel’s office door. Well, Aziraphale should’ve expected that, really. He turned to leave when Gabriel burst out of his office, booming, “Aziraphale! Where have you been hiding? Sleeping late again?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been writing,” Aziraphale replied. There wasn’t much use in admitting that he’d been failing to write. Gabriel might take it as a cue to lecture him on productivity.</p>
<p>“I thought you were on vacation,” Gabriel said. “What do you Brits say? On holiday!”</p>
<p>“No, I’m on sabbatical. I’m meant to be—”</p>
<p>“Beals!” Gabriel caught sight of the gaudy drink. “That looks incredible.”</p>
<p>“It’s my own fruit blend,” Beals said, their scowl replaced with a sharp grin. “I call it the Grape Plan.”</p>
<p>“The Grape Plan!” Gabriel literally shook with laughter. “That’s clever. Wasn’t that clever, Aziraphale? Maybe Beals should help you write your book. Although I’m a writer, too. You could always ask me for help.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale schooled his features to neutral. “Are you sure you should be drinking alone this early?”</p>
<p>“There’s no alcohol in here.” Gabriel curled his upper lip in disgust. “I don’t drink alcohol. Sullies the temple of the body and mind. This is fruit juice. Anathema has me on a juice cleanse. Isn’t that great?”</p>
<p>“Oh, is it?” Aziraphale made a half-hearted attempt to sound interested.</p>
<p>“Beals here is a fan of the Great Plan. And now I’m a fan of the Grape Plan!” </p>
<p>Beals watched Gabriel suck down the juice concoction a little too closely. There was something off about Beals, although Aziraphale couldn’t figure out exactly what bothered him about the butler’s demeanor. Young Aziraphale had been an infrequent guest at his father’s estate, the estranged child whose grandparents had changed his surname, a decision his father never stopped resenting. During Aziraphale’s visits, he’d tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, never asking for anything from the staff he didn’t absolutely need. As a result, he wasn’t sure how butlers were supposed to act. Nevertheless, he was reasonably certain they weren’t supposed to glare at people, other than urchins singing carols for handouts. No, wait, that was Dickens, wasn’t it?</p>
<p>The secretary, Ms. Dagon, appeared at the entrance to Gabriel’s office. “Would you please keep your voices down? I’m on the phone with the vicar negotiating Mr. Horn’s contribution.”</p>
<p>“Those are negotiable?” Aziraphale said. “I thought one simply contributed.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Horn, I need to know if you’re willing to purchase a goat for the youth programme,” Ms. Dagon said.</p>
<p>“How much does a goat cost?” Gabriel asked. “It’s probably a range. Do they need a high-end goat?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, what do they need a goat for?” Aziraphale asked, and was ignored.</p>
<p>“Tell them no high-end goats,” Gabriel instructed. “Nothing fancy. But make it sound pretty.”</p>
<p>Ms. Dagon disappeared, leaving Aziraphale to bear the brunt of the butler’s glare. He was beginning to think he’d accidentally done something to offend them and hoped an apology wasn’t owed. </p>
<p>Gabriel slurped his drink through a brightly colored plastic straw. “Aziraphale, you have to try this. You know what? You should do the juice cleanse with me. C’mon, it’ll be fun.”</p>
<p>“I … I really don’t think there would be much fun in—”</p>
<p>“Come on!” Gabriel punched his upper arm. “Look at how flabby your arm is. I’ll tell you, this is the easiest way to stay in fighting trim. After all, it’s not like I’m going to see you on the tennis court. And I’ll bet you want to drop that spare tire around your middle.”</p>
<p>“Spare tire,” Beals echoed, although whether in agreement or in amazement at Gabriel’s nerve, Aziraphale truly couldn’t tell. </p>
<p>The problem was that Gabriel was a conversational knife thrower, used to tossing his blades at captains of industry and intellectual trendsetters who could weave and dodge on a professional level. Aziraphale was already exhausted from this line of attack and longed for the days when his relationship with his half-brother consisted of a chain of voice mails where they pretended to regret that they’d reached the other one’s voice mail. </p>
<p>“So, what do you say, champ?” Gabriel was big on pinning down the sale. “Anathema should be around here somewhere. Let’s have her draw you up a customised diet. She bases it on your horoscope or something, but whatever the girl does,” and here Gabriel slapped his own flat, unflabby abdomen, “it works.”</p>
<p>“She’s hardly a girl,” Aziraphale said, trying to change the focus. “She must be well into her late twenties.”</p>
<p>Gabriel made his lemon-sucking face. “Yeah, whatever. As if you don’t know what I mean.”</p>
<p>To Aziraphale’s surprise, Beals spoke up. “The names you use to describe your inner circle should be precise and meaningful,” they said in their bored drawl. “Great Plan rule number eight.”</p>
<p>“Is that really number eight?” Gabriel shrugged. “I don’t think that one should have made the top ten.”</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Beals said. “But you have time to revise it now. No more corporate overlords. You can make the Great Plan truly yours.”</p>
<p>“Hmm, well, the Great Plan was entirely my idea,” Gabriel said. “But there are still rules to follow. Our methods have been screened by behavioral scientists and tested on real people. We don’t just make stuff up.”</p>
<p>“Rules? Pah. A little rebellion would be good for your soul,” Beals said. It wasn’t a suggestion. They stated it as a bare fact.</p>
<p>“I’m going to look for Anathema,” Aziraphale said. The devil on his left shoulder was screaming at him that there was no way in hell, absolutely no way in any circle of hell, that the Great Plan had been Gabriel’s idea. The angel on his right shoulder just felt sorry for the poor ghostwriter.</p>
<p>“I knew it,” Gabriel said. “You’re lucky you have so much of my time. My advice can be very expensive, and you get it for free.”</p>
<p>“Yes, how fortunate.” Aziraphale edged away, aided by Ms. Dagon calling out to Gabriel with another question. </p>
<p>As he escaped to the kitchen and Tracy’s teapot, Beals stared after him. Aziraphale recognised the look. It was one he was quite familiar with, one intended to make him feel unwelcome, outside the group. He’d never made friends easily, despite always doing his best to be friendly, and as an awkward pre-teen, he’d named this facial expression “don’t sit at my lunch table.” Although if all Beals had to offer for lunch was juice, Aziraphale was happy to find another place to go.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, rations in the kitchen weren’t much better. The oven was cold, and Tracy was bent over a shopping list, tapping her pursed lips with a pen, miraculously not smearing her fuchsia lipstick. Anathema had the teapot, and she was pouring the last of the tea into a mug for the new security guard.</p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry,” the young man said. He looked half-asleep on his feet, swaying with an imagined breeze.</p>
<p>“That’s quite alright, Mr. Pulsifer,” Aziraphale said. “You look as if you need it more than I do.”</p>
<p>“Please, call me Newt.” It seemed a strange request, but Aziraphale liked to call people what they wished to be called, rule eight of the Great Plan be damned. </p>
<p>“Newt’s on the overnight shift,” Anathema said. “He’s just getting off work now.”</p>
<p>Anathema had made a good impression on Aziraphale so far. He’d caught her examining the library and learned that she was very well read. Holistic health advisor had sounded wonky to Aziraphale, like an imaginary job, but Anathema’s recommendations of fresh air and exercise for Gabriel’s self-imposed isolation were quite sensible. He had a sneaking suspicion that Gabriel had misrepresented his position in order to lure her to England. Still, she was making the best of it, finding her own friends, if the way she straightened Newt’s collar was any indication.</p>
<p>“I didn’t even know we needed an overnight shift,” he said.</p>
<p>“You can never be too careful,” Tracy said mysteriously.</p>
<p>“Speaking of which, do you really have Gabriel on a juice cleanse?” </p>
<p>Anathema’s eyes danced and sparkled. “It should keep him busy for a week. That’s what he really needs, something to keep him busy.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but he’s not a cocker spaniel, so easily prone to distractions. Anyway, I don’t want to starve him just to keep him occupied.” Although … no, no, he wasn’t going to condone starving Gabriel.</p>
<p>Tracy harrumphed. “Starve! Look at this list of organic fruits and vegetables that Beals character insists we need. I don’t like that Beals. Shifty eyes, don’t you think?”</p>
<p><i>Yes</i>, Aziraphale thought. “No, I hadn’t noticed,” he said aloud. He shouldn’t be prejudiced against Beals just because the butler didn’t like him.</p>
<p>“I think Beals is doing a great job,” Anathema said. “Don’t you, Newt?”</p>
<p>“Uh, yes? Maybe?” Anathema raised her eyebrows at Newt. “No, I mean, yes definitely,” he clarified.</p>
<p>“We’ll get out of your hair,” Anathema said. “I just stopped in to ask Tracy if she got paid this week.”</p>
<p>“Of course.” Tracy spoke around the pen in her mouth. “Aziraphale pays me out of his part of the estate. He’s never been late.”</p>
<p>Anathema’s growl was probably intended to be subvocal, but Aziraphale heard it just the same. She whispered to Newt, who obediently followed her out the door. </p>
<p>“Ah, young love,” Tracy said.</p>
<p>“Really? I can’t tell if Newt’s smitten or simply too tired to argue with her.”</p>
<p>Tracy clicked her tongue. “You’re a grump. Having trouble with your writing?”</p>
<p>“It’s insipid, meaningless drivel.” He sighed in self-pity. “At least I have a teaching career to fall back on.”</p>
<p>“That sounds to me like the morning-after gloomies. You need paracetamol and fresh air. Here.” She held out the shopping list. “You and your chauffeur—”</p>
<p>“He’s not my chauffeur,” Aziraphale grumped.</p>
<p>“Oh-ho, then the two wine glasses and the two cheese plates I cleaned up this morning belonged to local elves?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale’s cheeks warmed. “Yes, well, I do apologise. I should have washed up before I went to bed. Alone, madame,” he added when Tracy’s smile got sharklike.</p>
<p>“Ah well. You can both repay me by going to the shops.” She held out the list more insistently. “Be a lamb and ask Crowley to drive you.”</p>
<p>Tracy had a point about the fresh air. There was nothing like Mother Nature to refresh the mind and spirit. He took the list from Tracy and skimmed it. Champagne mangoes? Honeybell oranges? Royal Verano pears? He’d never heard of such a beast, and he quite liked pears. He wouldn’t find any of these items in Tadfield. Hopefully, Crowley would be up for a long, leisurely country drive.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When Aziraphale was young, the main garage on the property was an abandoned stable. He’d wander through the empty stalls inhaling air scented by ghostly straw and hay, imagining a whole ecosystem of gentle horses who loved riders, smart and sassy veterinarians, and, as he got older, handsome men in tight jodhpurs. He was a bit shell-shocked to see the inside of the refurbished building. All the stalls were gone, and all the creaky doors he used to swing on, and the romantic nooks and hiding places. An air conditioner whirred loudly, creating a sterile, climate controlled environment. The floor no longer groaned, as the wooden planks had been replaced by poured cement. No ghosts survived here, not even the ghost of his childhood. Fortunately, though, real life had compensated by providing a handsome man in tight trousers.</p>
<p>Crowley leaned over a small white convertible, buffing the chrome with a chamois. The sight of his limber, flexible body bent over the car stole the breath from Aziraphale’s lungs. Crowley had a tendency to drape over sofas and counters and car hoods, and it was extremely difficult not to think of other things Crowley was welcome to pour himself over.</p>
<p>Despite the cars parked around the perimeter, the empty space echoed. Aziraphale’s footfalls caught Crowley’s attention. He lifted his head from his work and asked, “Come to take a good look, have you?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale froze. “I … uh … am I disturbing you?”</p>
<p>Crowley shook his head. “I’ve been waiting for you to tour the collection.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, right, I’ve been wanting a good look at the cars.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Actually, I’ll have to save the tour for another time. I’ve been sent on an errand. Would you be available for a shopping trip?”</p>
<p>“Believe it or not, I get paid to drive you places.” This was said with a saucy grin, as if Crowley was an undergraduate who’d found someone else to write his term paper. “I took the Bentley out yesterday, though, so we’ll have to take another car. I have to rotate so nobody feels left out. Could take the Healy. Isn’t she a beauty?”</p>
<p>He patted the white convertible affectionately. Aziraphale did his best to appear interested despite a sudden, overwhelming wave of jealousy. </p>
<p>“Ah, yes, I can see why you like her. Very pretty.” He wasn’t sure he was talking about the car anymore, but Crowley seemed oblivious to the subtext.</p>
<p>“It’s the design. Work of art. See, chrome-edged windscreen.” Crowley bended forward to present the chrome work like a showroom model. “Feral air scoop on the hood.” This accompanied by an elegant swish of his long arms that got his shoulder muscles rippling under his thin cotton shirt. Perhaps Crowley wasn’t oblivious to subtext after all. “Fenders arched like leaping … eh, something that leaps. Leap-like.” </p>
<p>“Frogs leap,” Aziraphale said.</p>
<p>Crowley scowled. “Do not compare the Healy to a frog. What’s graceful about a frog? I mean, maybe one of those little colorful Amazonian ones, that would be okay.”</p>
<p>“Hmm, fenders arched like leaping little colorful Amazonian treefrogs doesn’t have quite the ring to it,” Aziraphale said. </p>
<p>“You’re the writer.” And then, “What’s that look for? You didn’t let Gabriel read your novel, did you?”</p>
<p>“At this point, I’m afraid he couldn’t make it worse. In any case, he’s on a juice cleanse.” He handed Crowley the shopping list. “I’m not sure where to find all that fancy produce.”</p>
<p>Crowley whipped his mobile out his back pocket. “I’ll find us something. Get in, I’ll warm her up. What about gazelles?”</p>
<p>“Oh, the fenders?” Aziraphale shrugged. “Leaping gazelles. Fast but terrified.”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s all wrong. There’s nothing terrified about the Healy.”</p>
<p>But Crowley was mistaken. Once they’d left the gates of Eden’s Garden behind, the terrified thing about the Healy was its passenger. </p>
<p>“Don’t you think we’re going too fast?” Aziraphale yelled over the road noise.</p>
<p>“’Course I don’t. If I thought that, I’d slow down.” </p>
<p>Aziraphale squeezed the armrest so hard, he was sure he’d leave a dent, reducing the value of the car by a few hundred pounds. If this was the ride with the top up, the ride with the top down had probably been banned by the Geneva Convention.</p>
<p>Crowley, though, grinned savagely. “Dolphins!” he said, taking one hand off the steering wheel to make an emphatic but meaningless hand gesture. “Fenders like leaping dolphins.”</p>
<p>“Crowley, there’s a curve coming up. You should … Crowley!”</p>
<p>Crowley accelerated into the curve, that demon’s grin spreading across his face. “They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale hugged his stomach, holding down last night’s wine. “Yes, now they have airbags and anti-lock brakes.”</p>
<p>After an hour’s drive, Crowley pulled into a car park next to an upscale supermarket that was in reality at least an hour and a half away from Tadfield. He insisted on parking directly on the white line dividing the individual spaces, lining up the Healy just so.</p>
<p>“This way nobody can park next to her,” he explained as they left the car.</p>
<p>“Don’t other drivers find that irritating?” </p>
<p>“What, a minor thing like that?” It was amazing how Crowley could sound so innocent. “What kind of person is going to let a parking space ruin his day when he gets the chance to look at this work of art?”</p>
<p>But it bothered Aziraphale, who felt the lines had been painted that way for legitimate reasons. “You never know, do you? Someone who couldn’t get a parking spot might take their frustration out on the store employees. And then they might take their anger out on their families. Your parking job could be like throwing a pebble in a pond, radiating ill will.”</p>
<p>“Pffft. Ridiculous. Like I have that much power over people. But if you need to, you can do some random act of kindness to make up for it, angel.”</p>
<p>“I might just, fiend.”</p>
<p>Crowley laughed. It was a good laugh, and Aziraphale was pleased with himself for eliciting it. Crowley’s ebullient mood continued in the shop, where he purposely ignored the list and grabbed fruit seemingly at random.</p>
<p>“Bosc pears, good enough,” Crowley said, tossing two perfectly ripe pears into their basket.</p>
<p>“This is quite the infernal plan, buying the wrong produce,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure they’ll never suspect us, the people who did the shopping.”</p>
<p>“Oh, they’ll suspect.” Crowley’s eyebrows rose above his dark glasses. “But they’ll never be able to prove we did it on purpose.”</p>
<p>“Those pears really are lovely. Let’s get two more to go with our lunch.”</p>
<p>Crowley, who was tossing a green apple, fumbled the catch. “Our lunch?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale felt his blushing and could only hope it wasn’t too obvious. “Yes, well, we do need to eat at some point.”</p>
<p>It had been a huge assumption on his part. Surely, Crowley had work on the cars he wanted to do today. Now he’d put Crowley in the awkward position of having to turn him down. He was formulating an apology when Crowley put the shopping basket on the floor.</p>
<p>“I’ve been known to eat lunch,” Crowley said quietly. “You could tempt me.”</p>
<p>Crowley’s smile was uncertain and very different from his usual flippant grin, leaving Aziraphale wondering which one of them was doing the tempting. Since Crowley’s arms were evidently tired from having to keep their very old car from careening off the road, Aziraphale picked up the basket and immediately started babbling. </p>
<p>“Excellent, we should find some cheese to go with the pears. Something mild, maybe something Dutch. That won’t be quite enough for lunch, but maybe we could stop at the bakery. Oh, we could pick up some prosecco. Unless you’re driving all afternoon? We could eat back in Tadfield if that helps. I know the perfect spot on the grounds for a picnic, if that sounds amenable to you.”</p>
<p>He couldn’t ask himself why he was acting so foolish. He knew why. It was total infatuation. Every time Crowley’s arm brushed his as they browsed the shop, his stomach got all fluttery. Crowley seemed happy to go on a picnic, but he probably thought Aziraphale was silly, as people usually did when he got to babbling. Maybe he was trying not to laugh at Aziraphale’s general, all-around ridiculousness. Maybe hoping for anything more was a sure way to be disappointed. Although when Crowley held the shop door open for him on the way out, it was hard not to get one’s hopes up. </p>
<p>“I suppose you’re going to drive like a speed freak on the way home?” he said roughly, as if one caustic comment could balance out all of his gushing.</p>
<p>“Aziraphale, of course,” Crowley said. “We owe it to the Healy.”</p>
<p>“We do?”</p>
<p>“We have a responsibility to these cars. They want to show off their talents.” Crowley patted a dolphinesque fender. “Poor girl, stuck in a barn all day, just sitting there. Hardly seems fair, does it?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Well, as long as it’s in the interest of fairness and not because you enjoy scaring me by driving like a bat out of hell.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to tell the Healy you didn’t mean that. It’s not her fault she doesn’t ride as smoothly as the Bentley.” He pitched his voice to a low, gravelly, sexy rumble. “Don’t tell her I was playing favorites, though.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”</p>
<p>Crowley opened the car door for him, and then took the shopping bags out of his hands. This was all just chauffeur things that chauffeurs did. Aziraphale needed to remember that. </p>
<p>“Tomorrow, we’ll take out the Gullwing,” Crowley said when he got behind the wheel. “That’s a gorgeous machine. I hear they can go 160 miles an hour. Wanna put it to the test?”</p>
<p>Aziraphale had never wanted to say yes to a question as desperately as he wanted to say no. He made a noncommittal noise. Fortunately, Crowley was listening intently to the roar of the engine. On the ride home, experiments proved that closing his eyes made his nausea worse, and that grinding his teeth was pretty much unavoidable. After the car stopped in front of the barn at Eden’s Garden, it took a full minute for Aziraphale’s hands to stop vibrating enough to open the door. </p>
<p>Fortunately, they couldn’t drive up the ridge to the picnic spot he had in mind, a grassy rise with an old, crumbling wall to keep them from sitting on the somewhat muddy ground. Aziraphale made a quick pit stop in the kitchen for plates, napkins, and a sharp knife, successfully avoiding Tracy. </p>
<p>He and Crowley walked up the rise in companionable silence. The fluttering in his stomach was more pronounced now, and his ears were ringing, although that was most likely from the drive. It wasn’t like this was a date. They both needed to eat lunch, that was all. When they reached the remains of the old stone wall (which was not romantic, but moldy and possibly covered in bugs, hint hint, Aziraphale), they realised they didn’t have any glasses. Crowley opened the prosecco with the knife, a rare talent, and passed Aziraphale the bottle.</p>
<p>“Beautiful view up here,” Crowley said. The sunglasses obscured his eyes; he could’ve been looking at anything.</p>
<p>Aziraphale cast his own gaze around the grounds. “You can really see everything up here. I didn’t realise what a bird’s eye view we’d have of the estate buildings. Look, there’s the guardhouse. Hmm, we can see exactly what they’re up to.”</p>
<p>“Cheese?” Crowley offered with a squeak.</p>
<p>“Thank you. You know,” he joked, “if we ever wanted to rob this place, we could keep tabs on the security staff from here.”</p>
<p>“What? Why would we … oh, look, there’s Newt and Anathema! Don’t they make a couple?”</p>
<p>Newt and Anathema were wandering around the guardhouse, probably admiring the daffodils and tulips springing up around the gates. They both looked blissfully happy with the sunshine, the flowers, and the company.</p>
<p>“They are quite adorable together,” Aziraphale said. “Although I worry Newt may be a tad in over his head.”</p>
<p>“To be fair, I’ve seen Newt get in over his head making a sandwich.”</p>
<p>Aziraphale chuckled. “I meant that the poor boy worked all night on security. He must be exhausted. Do you know, I’ll bet he’s the only one working the graveyard shift. The only thing standing between us and nocturnal disaster.”</p>
<p>“Like what?” Crowley demanded. Was he still kidding around? He sounded awfully serious.</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “Robbers? Night prowlers?”</p>
<p>Crowley grabbed the bottle of prosecco and took a swig. Aziraphale found himself transfixed watching him swallow. Perhaps he should invest in a good pair of sunglasses himself.</p>
<p>He decided to change the subject. “So, how do you know Beals?”</p>
<p>“What are you talking about?” Crowley snapped. “I don’t know Beals.”</p>
<p>“Oh. I’m sorry, I thought you said—“</p>
<p>“I didn’t say anything about Beals. I don’t know where you got that from.” Crowley stood abruptly. “I need to head back to the garage. On the clock and all.”</p>
<p>“Alright.” Aziraphale began to gather their lunch items. Crowley hadn’t touched the food. Aziraphale had obviously offended him somehow. </p>
<p>Or Crowley had simply tired of being the day’s amusement. Aziraphale must be coming across like an idle man of leisure with nothing useful to occupy his time. A wastrel unconscious of his many privileges, a spoiled aristocrat during the French Revolution.</p>
<p>“I should get back to work myself,” he said. “No rest for the wicked, as they say. Thank you for taking me to the shop.”</p>
<p>“Don’t thank me,” Crowley said. “It’s my job.”</p>
<p>That stung, so much so that he needed to close his eyes for a moment, but it was a good and timely reminder. Poor Crowley, who obviously couldn’t help but be charming. Here he was trying to be polite to his … customer? Employer’s brother? And Aziraphale was reading things into it like an old fool. But it had started out as such a lovely picnic, hadn’t it?</p>
<p>Crowley made some kind of strangled noise, as if he’d noticed that Aziraphale was feeling absurdly close to tears. Honestly, his recent lack of routine was doing ugly things to his emotional health if he couldn’t handle this situation without making Crowley feel worse.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, angel, I just …” Crowley reached for the plates and then seemed to think better of it. “I should really head back to work. In case Gabriel comes looking for me.”</p>
<p>“Of course. Have a good afternoon.” He waved Crowley off. “Please, let me take care of the plates. Tracy likes things just so.” </p>
<p>Angel. That didn’t mean anything. How stupid to think it had been a term of endearment. Crowley didn’t even want to walk back to the house with him. </p>
<p>But he hadn’t been imagining their earlier rapport. Something had happened to change things. He was going to spend the rest of the day obsessing over his every interaction with Crowley anyway, so he might as well replay the conversation and try to figure out where he’d gone wrong. </p>
<p>It came to him as he walked down the ridge alone. Crowley’s attitude had changed when he’d brought up Beals. Everything had been peachy before that. Once Aziraphale asked about Beals, Crowley had completely shut down. Why? Was he scared of the butler?</p>
<p>It didn’t take too much thought to connect the dots. Crowley had only been in charge of the car collection for a few days, and he obviously loved it. He didn’t want to lose the job, so he didn’t want to stir the pot. Aziraphale had seen dramas like this play out at the university, where power-mad professors bullied PhD candidates who were too afraid of losing their positions to complain. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but all signs pointed to Beals harassing Crowley in a similar manner. And that was unacceptable. </p>
<p>It depressed him a bit that Crowley didn’t trust him enough to confess the problem with Beals, but Crowley was obviously self-conscious, as one could assume from the way he repeatedly arranged his hair in the rear-view mirror of whichever car he and Aziraphale occupied. Well, the obligation shouldn’t be on Crowley to be provided with a safe, non-hostile place to work. If Beals was harassing Crowley, Aziraphale was damn well going to put a stop to that. From now on, if Beals and Crowley were in the same place, Aziraphale would be watching them like a mother hawk.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks again to freyjawriter24 for the beta read! This chapter really needed it.</p>
<p>If I figure out how to add photos, I'm going to post a photo of the Mercedes Gullwing, which is one of the prettiest cars I've ever seen.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley’s brain was very angry at him for being mean to Aziraphale, so very angry that it wouldn’t do anything but play a song of its own making on repeat.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>  <i>All you had to do<br/>Was steal a car or two<br/>From someone who doesn’t deserve them like you<br/>Tell me how did you screw, screw, screw it up again Crowley</i><br/></p>
</blockquote><p>Traditionally, it had been a bad omen when he started writing song lyrics about what a fuckup he was. They always had the same chorus. Sometimes he could get stuck repeating “how did you screw it up again Crowley” for days. It was a strange defence mechanism, but as long as he was focused on composing the bridge, he didn’t have to think about Aziraphale’s expression.</p><p>Just … just … of all the people he could’ve hurt, he had to offend the man who listened to him go on and on about the Bentley and the Healy and didn’t think his relationships with inanimate objects were too strange, who had seen Crowley as he was and then invited him on a picnic. Nobody had ever asked him to go on a bloody picnic before.</p><p>If only Aziraphale hadn’t asked how he knew Beals. All Crowley had to do was tell him a tiny lie. Anything would’ve done the trick. Saying he met Beals at the employment agency would’ve been fine. It wasn’t like Crowley had no experience lying to people. How had he been so completely unable to lie to Aziraphale?</p><p>He tried sitting in the Bentley, but that wasn’t enough to ease the feeling that there was an alien baby trying to claw its way out of his chest. Even the scent of perfectly conditioned leather didn’t console him. He sprawled across the spacious back seat – honestly, he’d lived in flats with less room to stretch out – and tried to rationalise. Okay, so, he was stealing the cars from Gabriel, not Aziraphale, right? It wasn’t like Aziraphale would miss the cars. He didn’t even drive, right? And he probably wouldn’t think that Crowley had been using him to get to the cars, right? Right?</p><p>No, he couldn’t make himself swallow that last one. Tomorrow night, or the night after or the night after, but sometime very, very soon, he and the cars were going to disappear, and Aziraphale was going to hate him for the rest of their natural lives.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>It was a simple scheme<br/>But you got caught up in a dream<br/>And you know it’s going to hurt him, you know he’s going to think he was stupid to even talk to someone like you, and it’s your own fault, you fuckwit, and that doesn’t even rhyme, you’re so fucking useless you can’t even rhyme a one-syllable word, you badly dressed stick figure trying to pass yourself off as human</i>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>... Annnd back to the chorus.</p><p>It wasn’t entirely his fault. Fate had put him in this position because his life was a bloody joke. Once upon a time, he thought that having the perfect car would make him happier, and now here he was, having his mental breakdown in his dream car. Even Alanis Morissette would find that too fucking ironic.</p><p>“Are you laughing up there?” he asked the ceiling of the Bentley’s interior.</p><p>There was no answer. Why would there be? He was a bad, bad person, and it wasn’t as if he and God were on speaking terms. But … but maybe he could fix things. After all, the cars were still here. Nothing had been stolen yet. No harm, no foul. He could leave tonight, tell Beals he had a ruptured appendix or two. Fly to Paris and send Aziraphale a note to meet him on the Seine. He could be a driver in France. It wasn’t London, but he’d heard Paris was almost like a real city. What would God have to say to that, huh?</p><p>The loud banging that came from above terrified him into curling into the foetal position. Fuck, never ask a question you didn’t want answered.</p><p>“Crowley, I see you in there.” The door opened, and Beals crawled into the back seat with him.</p><p>“Don’t pound on the roof like that,” Crowley snapped. “This is a classic. I don’t want you denting it.”</p><p>Beals eyeballed him, probably taking in more than Crowley currently wished to communicate. “Are you for real?” they said. “You. Are not. The caretaker. Of the car collection. Do you understand?”</p><p>“I’m not the caretaker of the Louvre either, but that doesn’t mean I’d let you spray paint the Mona Lisa.”</p><p>Beals rubbed their forehead. “I should’ve known this job was too much for you.”</p><p>“It’s fine. I’m fine,” he insisted despite all obvious evidence. “It’s just … you know, I was thinking, maybe we’d be better off staying on and milking Horn. What’s the rush?”</p><p>“I knew it. You’ve developed a fetish for the stuffed teddy bear of a brother. Serious question, Crowley. What the fuck is wrong with you?”</p><p>Crowley groaned. As if there’d be enough time before the end of the world to begin to answer that question.</p><p>To his surprise, Beals sighed and leaned back in the amazingly comfortable seat. “I get it, though. I really do. You escape the city, and it’s a new perspective. I know you thought the Great Plan was all bullshit – and yes, after spending the last two days with that varnished caveman in there, I can see exactly why – but it made me look at life from a new perspective. And once you do that, you can’t fit back into your old life.”</p><p>“We’re not even liberating the cars,” Crowley said. “As soon as they pay us, the insurance company is going to bring them right back here. Does Gabriel even want the cars?”</p><p>Beals patted his thigh. “Crowley, I don’t think you’re miserable because Gabriel doesn’t spend enough time with his automobile collection.”</p><p>“Bleah, what the fuck is wrong with me then? It’s like I don’t even care about the c … c … It’s like I don’t even care about the money anymore.”</p><p>Beals paused a moment before speaking. “You’ve never been an introspective person. I always admired that about you, actually. Stubborn bastard. You decided on your fixation early in life, and you dove right in. Born in council housing in a city where nobody in their right mind owns a car? You never let that stop you. But now you know the cars aren’t enough. And here’s the bitch of the thing the Great Plan taught me. Once you figure out something about yourself, it’s too late, because you’re already changing.”</p><p>Crowley nodded because that had the ring of truth to it. “You changed,” he said. “The old Beals would’ve been all ‘suck it up, buttercup’.”</p><p>“We all have the capacity for change,” Beals said. “Great Plan rule number … oh, fuck it. The sooner we all get out of this place, the better. Once you get back to London, you’ll remember why you care about the money. Anyway, you’re in luck. I came out here to tell you that Dagon found a hiding place to stash the cars.”</p><p>“Urrgghh, really? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”</p><p>“Crowley, you cannot tell Aziraphale why you came here. It will not end well. And if you don’t care what happens to you, think about me, and Dagon, and Anathema, and the poor kid you dragged into this.”</p><p>It was hardly fair bringing up Newt since Crowley actually had dragged him into this. He should’ve known that would come back to bite him in the arse. Poor Newt would never make it in prison. Come to think of it, poor Crowley wouldn’t exactly thrive in prison either.</p><p>“Tonight, we’re telling the Overdressed Brothers that you’re taking me and Dagon to the chemists’ to make sure we can get our prescriptions filled in Tadfield,” Beals said. “We’ll direct you to the site where you’ll babysit the cars while we wait for the insurance company payoff. Once you see how the plan’s coming together, it will be a huge weight off your shoulders.”</p><p>Beals slipped out of the car before Crowley could make another protest. His chest was still feeling particularly stabby, so he reclined flat across the bench seat again.</p><p>There would be no escaping the consequences of his actions. Fleeing to Paris had been a stupid daydream. If he left now, it wouldn’t stop the plan they’d set in motion. Beals would steal the cars regardless, Aziraphale would realise that Crowley had been in on the plot, and he’d be stuck in France alone, poor, looking over his shoulder for Interpol, and driving on the wrong side of the road. Kinda bonkers to think Aziraphale would be willing to run away with a middle aged, unreformed thief he’d known for like a week.</p><p>Although he had to give himself style points for coming up with a whole new way to screw himself over. He’d never gotten attached to the mark before. It shouldn’t be too hard to get himself unattached, but he wasn’t sure how. In the past, he’d strained to feel something in relationships, brute forcing his way through romances, vaguely feeling the whole time like he was obligated to check off a to-do list. Wash the driving school cars, send affectionate texts, water the plants. He’d never had to restrain himself from putting his head on someone’s shoulder before he met Aziraphale. But, see, if he rested his head on Aziraphale, then Aziraphale might comb his fingers through his hair and whisper nice things in his sexy, posh voice. “Crowley,” he’d say, “doesn’t your hair look lovely today? Did you have a hard day at work, my dear? Would you like me to rub your neck?”</p><p>Yeah, that wasn’t helping. He’d have to avoid Aziraphale entirely. He was a world-class expert in avoiding people, so he had the skill set. No problem.</p><p>He put a mental pin in the neck rub thoughts to revisit later, though, since driving was hard on the neck and shoulders. And a fantasy Aziraphale was the only Aziraphale he was allowed to have.</p><p> </p><p>Dinner looked like an excruciating affair. Beals and Crowley weren’t invited to sit at the highly polished mahogany dining room table, but Dagon was, so they had to wait in the kitchen for her to finish. Crowley couldn’t figure out what the social strata was supposed to be here between upstairs and downstairs as filtered through Gabriel’s innate … Americanness? Americanosity? When it came to the proper separation expected between the estate’s staff and occupants, he got the impression Aziraphale knew but didn’t care, and Gabriel cared but didn’t know.</p><p>Crowley peeked into the dining room, where Aziraphale was too caught up in tasting Tracy’s roast potatoes to notice him at first. Gabriel stared forlornly at his juice glass sparkling under the chandelier. Aziraphale glanced up and noticed Crowley in the doorway, so Crowley gave him a saucy wink. That got no reaction because Crowley was wearing his dark glasses and, therefore, Aziraphale couldn’t see the wink. Dammit, something about Aziraphale made his IQ plunge, but that shouldn’t be a problem for long. Soon they’d never see each other again. He was supposed to be avoiding the man anyway, not watching him eat. Did he always lick his fork like that? No, no, not important. He had a cute tongue, though. It looked very nimble. This line of speculation was not going to help him sleep well tonight.</p><p>Finally, finally, finally, Dagon rose from the table. “Crowley is taking me to the town chemist’s. I need to transfer my prescriptions.”</p><p>“Good luck with your errand,” Aziraphale said.</p><p>“What are your prescriptions for?” Gabriel asked, because he was a tool.</p><p>Dagon pretended not to hear. Aziraphale leaned over the table for the salt, which was odd since he’d finished his dinner. The mystery was solved when Gabriel again asked Dagon why she needed prescriptions, and Aziraphale “accidentally” knocked over Gabriel’s juice glass.</p><p>“Oh dear, Gabriel, I’m sorry.” Aziraphale sounded so sincere, and it was freaking adorable. Crowley had to shove his fist in his mouth to keep from cackling.</p><p>“Unbelievable,” Gabriel groused. “Well, Dad always said you had the natural grace of a headless chicken.”</p><p>“You know me,” Aziraphale said blandly while Crowley scowled in resentment of Aziraphale’s father, a man long dead who still managed to deserve a kick in the hindquarters.</p><p>“Can we get you anything while we’re out?” Beals asked in their butler’s voice, which was identical to their regular voice but with fewer obscenities.</p><p>Aziraphale had been using his fine linen napkin to mop up the juice spilled across the table, but now he stood. “All three of you are going to the chemist’s? Come to think of it, the pharmacy in Tadfield isn’t open at night.”</p><p>Crowley was going to kill Beals and Dagon. They were supposed to be the planners, for fuck’s sake.</p><p>“The chemist is still open,” Beals insisted. “We can make it if we hurry.”</p><p>“Why don’t we go tomorrow?” Aziraphale said. “I’ll go with you and introduce you to some of the local shopkeepers.”</p><p>“You can’t possibly remember those people,” Gabriel said. “I’ve been here maybe once in the last decade. Wait, have you been coming here without me?”</p><p>“Yes, Gabriel, it is half my estate. I’ve taken a few holidays here and there. My life isn’t all drudgery, you know.”</p><p>“Oh, sure, you professors have it easy. Summers off, weekends off. Must be nice not to have to devote your life to work like the rest of us.”</p><p>Crowley’s body felt like a coil greased with adrenaline. It took all his energy not to propel himself across the dining room and come to Aziraphale’s defence. But Beals tugged on his shirt.</p><p>“We need to leave now while they’re passive-aggressively sniping at each other,” they said.</p><p>Right, right. And it wasn’t as if Crowley knew how often Aziraphale worked. And he was supposed to be avoiding him for eternity, which he kept forgetting even though it was also constantly weighing on his mind. He felt a bit like a prat sneaking out without saying goodbye, as if he was on a secret mission. Which he was, but he didn’t want to look like he was. He could make up for it by taking Aziraphale to town tomorrow – oh, no. No, he couldn’t.</p><p>The weather had turned, as it does in April, and dark clouds made the hour feel later than it was. It wasn’t quite raining, more a thin drizzle that settled a layer of damp on everything. Beals insisted that they stay undercover, so Crowley had to drive the estate’s little nondescript Reliant, which was probably the piece of tin Gabriel loaned to Anathema when he was feeling generous. The small tires slipped on the wet roads more than Crowley liked. Now a car like the Bentley had weight to it; this sewing machine would topple in a strong breeze.</p><p>A Range Rover better suited for the slick roads refused to pass him. Its stubborn driving reminded Crowley of the Ford Fiesta he’d seen following him on his first day on the job, when he took out the Bentley. But this was a Range Rover, nothing like a Fiesta. The Fiesta probably hadn’t been following him purposely, just headed the same way, like the Range Rover with its obnoxious high beams giving him a headache. He cut through a petrol station to give it the slip.</p><p>It took most of an hour following Dagon’s directions across the trackless wilds of “not London” to find their destination, a trip time that couldn’t be explained by even the most incompetent chemist. The abandoned shopping centre seemed even more shadowed than the rest of the dark world. Dagon explained that there used to be a Debenhams here before they went under, and the surrounding shops had succumbed quickly after that, victims of the success of online commerce. Crowley was prepared for a deserted car park, but the reality was still grim, like surveying a medieval village after a plague.</p><p>Beals told Crowley to drive around the back of the building. The rear wall was blank, featuring just a few emergency exit fire doors and a loading bay. On the other side of the pavement, a chain-link fence held back the scrubby woods beyond. At least Dagon had found a secluded spot.</p><p>The three of them got out to stretch their legs and see what was what. Immediately, Beals pointed up at a rectangle of unpainted cinder block wall above the loading bay. “That’s where the alarm used to be.”</p><p>“One of them, anyway,” Crowley said.</p><p>“Actually, I don’t think there’s any power on,” Dagon said. She hoisted herself up onto the loading dock and tried the handle to raise the door. “Locked, but nothing too difficult. We can open it without any breakage.”</p><p>“And if there’s another alarm?” Crowley asked.</p><p>“Then get ready to run for it.” She took two thin metal spatulas from her jacket and bent over the keyhole in the door handle.</p><p>“Great.” Crowley hunched his shoulders against the fickle rain. “I can’t wait to get arrested for breaking into an empty store.”</p><p>“I like to think of it as practice,” Dagon said. “Ha, there we are.”</p><p>The bay door slid up a foot. They cocked their heads, listening, but heard nothing. Dagon got on her hands and knees and peered under the door. She brought her head back out to say, “It’s all ours.”</p><p>That meant Crowley and Beals had to climb onto the dock and lift the door another couple of feet. They slipped inside – Crowley couldn’t see a thing in the dark interior – and lowered the door behind them, leaving a crack that wafted in cold, dank air. Crowley was pretty sure his toes were frozen, and he curled his hands into fists to warm them. He followed Beals into the dimness.</p><p>This was the back warehouse room, and it had been cleared out entirely. At least it didn’t smell damp, just dusty. Empty shelving laced with spiderwebs listed against the cement walls. Crowley crossed the room and looked out to the main floor, where the store traffic pattern was still visible on the mauve carpet, pale rectangles indicating where merchandise had once stood. The windows across the front of the shop were coated in grime, impossible to see through. By Crowley’s elbow, two electric panels stood open, their main switches set to OFF.</p><p>The only interior walls still in place were around the toilets at the rear left of the shop. Crowley went into MEN because he was feeling like a crotchety old geezer ready to complain about his lumbago. He turned the hot tap on at the nearest sink, hoping for warm water. Nothing happened.</p><p>He joined Beals and Dagon on the former sales floor. “They really, really shut this place down.”</p><p>“Of course,” Beals said. “They don’t want electrical fires and they don’t want leaks.”</p><p>Crowley looked around, trying not to sneeze from the dust flying up his nostrils. “We can’t drive the cars into this space without a ramp.”</p><p>“Like that?” Dagon pointed under the front windows. A huge sheet of plywood was just visible flush to the ground, most likely stashed in defence against a windstorm that never came.</p><p>It was perfect. The whole perfect setup was ticking him off.</p><p>“We’ll need a cloudy night like tonight,” Beals said. “Those cars are too obvious on the road otherwise.”</p><p>Dagon nodded. “I’ll cross-check the weather with the kid’s security shifts. We could do this as early as tomorrow night if the weather holds.”</p><p>Great. All Crowley could do now was hope it didn’t rain. In England. In April. Fuck.</p><p>He pouted most of the drive home. No, not home, the drive to Eden’s Garden, which would never be home. He didn’t belong in a walled and gated estate. It was a great place for the cars, sure, although they’d been neglected since whenever the last chauffeur had ditched the position.</p><p>“Oi, Dagon, can you leave a note for the next secretary to find someone who will rotate the cars?” he said. “If Gabe won’t drive them all, have them find someone who will.”</p><p>“Gabriel didn’t want to hire a secretary until I convinced him,” Dagon said. “I hope he does hire my replacement, though. I’ve made amazing progress at lining him up interviews with publications who will respect our wishes about not asking mean-spirited questions.”</p><p>“Questions like why he stole the money?” Beals said. “Mean-spirited questions like that?”</p><p>“Exactly like that,” Dagon said. “I’ve been curating a list of acceptable questions. Also, we have a shot at getting him booked as a contestant on <i>Love Island</i>.”</p><p>“That’s pretty impressive,” Crowley admitted. “You’re good at this.”</p><p>“I have a lot of notes to leave for whoever takes my place. I know Gabriel has trouble hiring.” She sighed. “I can’t say I haven’t worried about it.”</p><p>“I didn’t get left any maintenance logs,” Crowley said. “Zip, nada, nothing. You got a printer in the office, right? Maybe I can type something up so the next chauffeur at least writes down when the oil gets changed and the brake pads get replaced.”</p><p>“Anything else you two would like to do to train your replacements?” Beals asked tartly. “Going to leave your mobile numbers in case they have questions?”</p><p>Other than the ineffectual blowing of the Reliant’s heater, it was silent for the rest of the drive.</p><p>Crowley waved to Newt at the guard house when they passed through the gates. Beals and Dagon split as soon as the Reliant pulled up to the estate house, but Crowley walked around checking that the cars were locked into their garages securely. This was him actively avoiding Aziraphale, and it was wet and clammy and sucky.</p><p>When he headed back to his room, he was surprised to see an unidentified object in the narrow hallway that connected the staff bedrooms. Something was plugged in right outside his door. As he approached it, he could see it was an unfamiliar appliance, about waist-high, covered with a towel. Oh, it was an electric towel warmer, with a note pinned to the toasty warm, oversized spa towel.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>  <i>Dear Crowley,<br/>I hope you had a nice time this evening running errands, and I trust Beals and Ms. Dagon weren’t too taxing? I just wanted to remind you that you’re not required to be at their disposal if you’d rather not. In any case, it looks dreary outside, and I’d hate for you to catch a cold in return for being so generous with your time. Please help yourself to the electric kettle. I left out some ginger lemon tea. Stay warm and mind how you go.<br/>Sincerely,<br/>Aziraphale</i><br/></p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks again to freyjawriter24 for the beta read and suggestions! And thanks to you all for reading.</p><p>I got to work in one of Donald Westlake's running jokes in this chapter. Dortmunder's gang of criminals live in New York, and whenever they have to consider leaving the city until the heat dies down, they can't think of any place to go because everywhere else in the entire world is the hinterlands. Finally Dortmunder suggests Chicago, the only place outside of Manhattan he's heard "is almost like a real city."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although Newt had getting out of London and seeing more of the world on his bucket list, working for Gabriel Horn wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind. He’d been thinking more of getting interesting pictures to post on Instagram, where he’d named an account “Newt in Motion” in anticipation of all the travel he wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only picture he’d managed to post successfully was of the inside of his satchel, and the only comments he’d gotten were complaints that Newton shouldn’t be spelled with an I.</p>
<p>There was nothing to photograph on the graveyard shift at Eden’s Garden. The estate was surrounded by an electrified fence whose front gate was permanently open, and the guard house was a little shack by the gate. The road along the estate’s entrance was the definition of “lightly travelled” during the day. At night, it was deserted. It was also the only way to get into Eden’s Garden. There was no back entrance to the estate, which had a surprisingly small amount of land compared to the size of the main house. To Newt, it looked to be about 3 acres. The only buildings on the estate were the main house, the guest house that currently housed the security guards, the old barn and stables – there must’ve been more land attached before the world wars – that now functioned as garages for the car collection, and the shack where Newt shivered as he watched the sunrise. </p>
<p>At least the weak light of dawn let him see the outlines of the other buildings and the tennis court. When it was dark out, he couldn’t see a thing. There wasn’t a single light on the electric fence. Driving the cars out of here without being noticed by the other guards would be tricky but not impossible. If they kept the headlamps off, it would come down to how well the other guards could hear in their sleep. Newt could leave the television on in the guest house to prevent the security guards from detecting the sounds of the engines.</p>
<p>Just because Newt could see how the heist would be successful didn’t mean he wanted to do it. How had he gotten himself into this situation? In the months he and Crowley had worked together, how had he not figured out that Crowley was an actual criminal? Crowley hated authority, regularly ducked the traffic cops, preferred clients who paid cash, and never revealed anything about his past or his personal life. Somehow, instead of coming to the obvious conclusion, Newt had taken this collection of personality traits to mean Crowley used to be part of the underground punk scene. It was ageism, Newt realised. Subconsciously, he’d thought that once criminals hit the age of 30, they were either in prison or in politics. </p>
<p>Once they stole Gabriel Horn’s cars, Newt would be a criminal, too, and he was almost 30. What was going to happen to him? If it wasn’t for Anathema, he’d start walking back to London right now. If it wasn’t for Anathema.</p>
<p>For the hundredth time, he tried to figure out what he was going to say to Anathema to get him out of a life of crime. He didn’t want her to think he was a coward, the problem being that he was a coward. And now that he’d met Gabriel Horn, he didn’t think he could take a moral stand against stealing from him. So far, the best he’d been able to come up with was asking Anathema to run away with him to someplace warm and sunny. He was leaning towards Hawaii, but he wasn’t picky.</p>
<p>Newt’s shift was midnight to 8 am, and at 7:45 am on the dot, Newt’s supervisor headed toward the shack. Fully staffed, there should’ve been four guards, but they were shorthanded. Besides Newt, there was a day guard and a supervisor, a rangy, weather-beaten man named Chuck Yancey. Newt hadn’t interacted much with the day guard since their hours were so different, but he’d seen her doggie bags from the Tadfield pub in the guest house’s fridge. Yancey had been replacing him when he came off shift in the morning. </p>
<p>“You know, you can bring an iPad or a tablet with you on duty,” Yancey said by way of greeting. “Just don’t watch movies all night.”</p>
<p>“That’s alright. I need the time to think,” Newt said. He had a hard enough time keeping his phone working. He’d never had any luck with iPads.</p>
<p>“You sure?” Yancey asked. “I know how boring it gets here at night. I don’t think anything happens after midnight within 60 miles of this place.”</p>
<p>“Really? There’s never police cars patrolling from Tadfield?”</p>
<p>“You’re kidding, right?” Yancey waved towards the road. “You should check out the town. There’s nothing there. I talked to the Tadfield constable, and he thinks the biggest threat to the peace is a gang of rowdy 11-year-olds.”</p>
<p>Newt yawned and stretched, wondering if he should try to get some sleep, when he spotted Anathema on a bicycle approaching the guard shack. He was immediately wide awake. She was dressed in shades of grey today, excepting the bright red frames of her glasses, and she’d tucked her long hair into a sloppy bun. She took the rise from the road to the guard shack without seeming to expend any extra effort. Her legs must be in fabulous shape. If they were in Hawaii, she’d be wearing shorts, and wouldn’t that be something?</p>
<p>She stopped in front of the shack, balancing the bicycle below her by resting on her tiptoes. The flex and release of her feet emphasised her toned calf muscles, even under her grey pants. Although stealing was wrong, and Newt understood that, he really did, would a judge who met Anathema have the heart to convict him? Surely any judge and jury would understand his motives. But he still didn’t want to go through with it.</p>
<p>“Nice bike,” Yancey said.</p>
<p>“Thanks, it’s a Diamondback gravel bike,” Anathema said. “Gabriel bought two of them when he moved in. I’d really hoped to get him out of the house more.”</p>
<p>“You can’t force him to do healthy things,” Newt said. “As his health advisor, all you can do is advise, right?”</p>
<p>“I suppose.” From Anathema, who was a very definite person, that was a wobbly answer.</p>
<p>“You can lead a horse to water,” Yancey said. “Newt, why don’t you get out of here? I can see nothing happened last night for you to report.”</p>
<p>“I came to ask if you wanted to get breakfast in town,” Anathema said, and Newt’s heart raced a little faster. She wasn’t coming to see Gabriel. She was coming to see him. And she was willing to admit it out loud and everything.</p>
<p>“Uh,” Newt said, “do you want me to sit behind you, or? Um.”</p>
<p>Anathema’s eyes widened. “We’ll get the second bicycle from the barn, ya goof.”</p>
<p>“The café does a great fry-up,” Yancey said. “Enjoy it for me.”</p>
<p>They walked to the barn side by side, Anathema steering the bike by the handlebars. Newt offered to take it, but she shook her head. She didn’t say a word as they walked, and it started to make Newt nervous. She wasn’t usually so glum. Disapproving, sure. Upset about the state of the world, yes, that too. But today she was drooping, gaze focused on the ground.</p>
<p>“Everything alright?” he asked gently.</p>
<p>“Your boss sounds like a good guy,” she said.</p>
<p>“Yeah, he’s considerate. Seems like a nice person to work with.”</p>
<p>“Tracy’s a nice person to work with,” Anathema said. </p>
<p>“She seems nice too,” Newt agreed. “Is that a problem?”</p>
<p>Anathema shook her head again. Newt didn’t push her. She’d say what she had to say over breakfast, and they’d both feel better with hot tea and food in their stomachs. They fetched Gabriel’s Diamondback from the barn, where it had been propped against a wall, out of the way of the cars. It was too early for Crowley to be awake, so they had the barn to themselves. Crowley might not be the most trustworthy of employees – alright, he was a snake in the grass – but at least he was neat. Newt didn’t think any of the ten or so cars in this building had a speck of dust. </p>
<p>“Maybe later, Crowley can tell us about these,” he said, motioning around the barn. “So we can decide which ones are our favorites.”</p>
<p>Anathema shot him a warning look, but he hadn’t said anything incriminating. Boy, she really was on edge today. </p>
<p>“Homesick?” he said, keeping his voice low in the echoing barn.</p>
<p>She sighed, her whole body slumping like she couldn’t hold her head up any longer. Before he could say a word of comfort, she stepped close and threw her arms around him. He stopped breathing for a second, until he worked out why his brain had shut down. <i>Hug her back, idiot</i>, his brain said as it came back online. He put his arms up and wrapped them around her. She didn’t protest, so he squeezed. She squeezed back and rested her head on his shoulder. She smelled like early morning dew, nothing he could ever smell in London. He touched a finger to her cheek, feeling where the sunshine had warmed her skin, and traced her cheekbone. </p>
<p>He’d steal anything for her, but he’d rather steal her away from here.</p>
<p>Anathema hardly said a word, even after they’d biked to town. Yancey’s description had been accurate: there was nothing here. A café, a pub, a post office, and a few gift shops sat on High Street, and Newt spotted a school out in the distance that seemed eerily quiet. Across the street from the café, a few people watched their dogs run in a little public park instead of running someplace themselves. Ah, it must be a weekend. It was hard to tell working the night shift. </p>
<p>They locked up the bikes in front of the café and Newt got them a table. It wasn’t until after they’d been served tea that Anathema nodded firmly to herself, as if she was physically banishing a black cloud above her head.</p>
<p>“What do you think of Aziraphale?” She shot the question at him like an investigative journalist.</p>
<p>He rolled one shoulder, a half shrug. “Kind of hard to believe he and Horn have the same father.”</p>
<p>“I like him,” she said, and then made a fist, as if she was angry about it. “I like Aziraphale, I like Tracy, I like Yancey … fuck, Newt, I’m not supposed to like this job. Not now.”</p>
<p>“Do you like the job, though? You don’t work for Aziraphale or the estate. You work for Gabriel.”</p>
<p>“It’s just …”</p>
<p>As she trailed off, Newt noticed how pale she was. The sun on her cheeks had obscured it. And she had dark crescents under her eyes. He reached out and gently touched her hand with his first two fingers. She grabbed them tight, and he lost the ability to notice anything but her, as if they were alone in the universe.</p>
<p>“Are you having an attack of conscience?” he said.</p>
<p>She groaned. “I think I am. Oh, God, it’s too late now, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t think it’s too late.” He tried not to let his expression reveal his joy. She didn’t want to steal the cars either! They could get out of this together!</p>
<p>“I keep thinking this is a victimless crime,” she said. “But what if Yancey tries to stop us by jumping in front of a car? And that’s just one example of something that could go wrong. Someone could get hurt. I’m only hoping this will be a victimless crime. Maybe there’s no such thing.”</p>
<p>“Did something happen to change your mind?”</p>
<p>“I did a reading this morning.”</p>
<p>“A reading?”</p>
<p>“Tarot cards. Their meaning was crystal clear. We’re blind to something important. There’s a large part of the pattern we’re missing. And I hate flying blind. Can you think of something I’m overlooking?”</p>
<p>“I mean … can I get a hint?”</p>
<p>“I keep getting the Judgement card in reversed position. It means I’ve made a hasty decision, I’ve misjudged. I don’t have the right information.” She took out her phone and showed him a picture of the Judgement card. It showed an angel with a horn looking down on some confused, naked humans. “See that? Angel with a horn? A little too on the nose to be ignored.”</p>
<p>Talking seemed to clear her head. She began to eat her full breakfast with gusto. Not that Newt had done anything to help. Maybe Anathema just needed someone who would let her work through her problems her own way at her own pace.</p>
<p>After they paid the bill, they stepped out into the morning sunshine. Four kids surrounded their bikes, which were fancy and new and expensive, after all. Newt smiled at them, but Anathema rolled her eyes.</p>
<p>“You again,” she said to the kids. Had they seen these kids before? Newt didn’t think so. All he knew about them for sure was that they were too young for driving lessons.</p>
<p>“Oh, hi, Anathema.” The curly-haired boy who spoke had a small dog on a leash. The dog snorted at Newt, unintimidated by his brown polyester security uniform. </p>
<p>“These bikes are very extra,” a girl said, hands on her hips. “Very suss. They’re from the Horn estate, aren’t they?”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you take one of those cool cars?” asked a boy with a stained shirt and untied shoelaces. “We like them. Who’s the new guy who races them around town?”</p>
<p>“That’s Crowley,” the dog owner said. “Tracy told my mother he’s the new chauffeur.”</p>
<p>Anathema and Newt exchanged a look over the kids’ heads. Everyone in town knowing Crowley’s name probably wasn’t ideal. Was that the information Anathema insisted they were missing?</p>
<p>“Newt,” Anathema said, “this is Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale, otherwise known as the Them. They’re Tadfield’s resident ruffians and know-it-alls.”</p>
<p>The kids didn’t seem to care what Anathema called them. “Is Crowley going to take the Bentley out today?” Adam asked. “That’s my favorite.”</p>
<p>“Actually, he’s taken a different car every day,” the shortest kid said. “Excepting the Range Rover. That’s the only car we’ve seen more than once.”</p>
<p>“And that piece of crap Fiesta,” Pepper said. “I can’t believe anyone would drive that when they could drive one of the classics.”</p>
<p>“Uh, there isn’t a Range Rover on the estate,” Newt said.</p>
<p>“It must be somebody’s from the estate,” Adam said. “Nobody in town owns it, and it just drives up the road to the estate and back, like all the time.”</p>
<p>“I want to know who drives the Fiesta,” Pepper insisted. She glared at Newt. “Is it you?”</p>
<p>“I don’t own a car.”</p>
<p>“He’s from London,” Anathema said, as if that explained anything. “Look at his uniform. He’s security. If he tells you nobody on the estate has a Range Rover, he knows what he’s talking about.”</p>
<p>“Well, the creeps in the Fiesta threw a chip wrapper into the park yesterday,” Pepper said. </p>
<p>“Littering is bad for the environment,” Brian said. “If you see them, tell them to stop.”</p>
<p>Newt shook his head. “Nobody on the estate owns a Fiesta, either. Are you sure these cars aren’t here for some other reason?”</p>
<p>All four of them chimed in together that they were absolutely sure the cars weren’t visiting anyone in Tadfield, actually they’d just seen the Range Rover this morning, not that they’d purposely left the house before their parents were awake but Dog needed to go out so that wasn’t their fault.</p>
<p>“Hmmm,” Anathema said. “Can you do me a favor? If I give you my number, can you text me if you see the Range Rover or the Fiesta again?”</p>
<p>Adam bounced on his toes. “Sure! We’ll take photos of the license tags, and we’ll tell you exactly where they go. This is exciting!”</p>
<p>“Actually, we’re very good at being undercover spies,” Wensleydale said. “Nobody will suspect a thing.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t suspect you,” Newt agreed. </p>
<p>Pepper nudged Brian. “We’ll show those litterers what’s what. How dare they?”</p>
<p>Newt and Anathema gave the gang their mobile numbers before the kids got tired of talking to such old people and ditched them for the park. </p>
<p>“We should’ve realised Tracy was gossiping about us all over town,” Anathema said before she got on her bicycle. “I’m beginning to think we’ve missed a lot of things.”</p>
<p>“We need to tell Beals about Tracy,” Newt said. “Do you think we should tell them about the Range Rover and the kids, too?”</p>
<p>Anathema hugged herself as if she’d gotten a chill. “I don’t know if I trust Beals. What if they know about the Range Rover? What if it’s theirs? I don’t want to bring the kids to their attention. Look, Crowley, Beals, and Dagon are obviously used to working together on illegal jobs. I don’t think we can trust anyone but each other.”</p>
<p>Newt was still a coward, but he was ready to let it work in his favor for once. “Maybe we should be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. You know, just in case something goes off the rails.”</p>
<p>“Agreed.” Anathema tilted her head, studying him. “Have you ever wanted to see California?”</p>
<p>“I was thinking Hawaii, but we could start with California and maybe work our way East.”</p>
<p>“Fair enough. What should we do now?”</p>
<p>“Pack,” Newt said. He straddled the bike. </p>
<p> Anathema pulled at his sleeve. “You’re the one dressed like … oh. Oh, shit, Newt, what if the police are staking us out in the Range Rover?”</p>
<p>“Why would the police be watching us? We haven’t done anything wrong.” </p>
<p>But Gabriel had. Everyone knew he was hiding money from the authorities. Maybe the police were watching him, waiting to see if he was going to meet a banker or a lawyer to get to his hidden fortune. That would mean the estate was under government surveillance, which threw a huge monkey wrench into Beals’s plans. Newt was going to have to tell Crowley, no doubt about it. </p>
<p>“I’ll talk to Crowley today,” he promised. “Maybe he’s seen the Range Rover or the Fiesta during his drives.”</p>
<p>“And I’ll do another reading,” Anathema said. Newt smiled encouragement, because how could he not? </p>
<p>Thanks to Anathema’s initiative, he felt much better about his situation. He and Anathema both felt the same, and they’d agreed to trust each other. Which meant Anathema trusted him. And the more she knew him, the more she trusted him. There was no way on Earth Newt was going to let her down. Beals couldn’t force them to participate in the robbery. Could they?</p>
<p>He looked the shops over once more. As far as he was concerned, it was time to buy sunscreen and a beach towel and plan for his future life in California. Maybe it shouldn’t have taken meeting a conman like Gabriel to prove that Newt was meant to live an honest life, but he knew it now. He owed Crowley a heads up, he supposed, for old times’ sake. But Anathema was his priority now. Surely Crowley would understand that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The Them are on the case!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was no such thing as a foolproof plan. Seven years ago, Beatrix Beals heard that on a radio interview with the famous Gabriel Horn, and it had resonated. In fact, they’d been listening to the radio in the getaway car with Crowley, waiting for their co-conspirators to leave the jewelry store they’d targeted. Beals had taken Gabriel’s words as an omen and forced Crowley to drive away. The police showed up only minutes later, according to the record of their co-conspirators’ convictions. It was agonizing to lose people on the job, and they’d gotten out of the business of planning heists altogether – until now. </p><p>The exact quote from The Great Plan was “No matter how foolproof an evil plan, in the end it will founder on the rocks of iniquity and vanish.” Bold words for a plan, words that required being able to discern good (or Great) plans from evil ones. The Great Plan never mentioned where the Rocks of Iniquity were located, but why wouldn’t they be here at Eden’s Garden, Gabriel Horn’s lair? Because it was definitely turning out to be the place where Beals’s plans went to die.</p><p>Today, Beals thought, the rocks of iniquity were being chucked directly at their head. Aziraphale was the first fool with a metaphorical rock in hand. He stood in the upstairs corridor, shaking his head sadly outside Gabriel’s closed bedroom door. Beals had run upstairs to grab a minute away from Gabriel and read the news on their phone. The financial pages had an article enticingly titled “Horn’s Hidden Assets in Plain Sight in Grand Cayman.” For once, the algorithms worked and delivered news very relevant to their interests. But no, first they had to deal with Aziraphale and his disappointed tongue clicking.</p><p>“What?” they snapped.</p><p>“Oh, really,” Aziraphale said, “do you call yourself a butler?”</p><p>Beals was beginning to think there was some aspect of butlering they’d missed in their training films. Apparently, <i>Clue</i>, <i>Arthur</i>, and old episodes of <i>Magnum P.I.</i> didn’t cover all the bases. Too American, probably. Beals would’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for the meddling brother.</p><p>Aziraphale motioned to the floor. “The shoes, Beals.”</p><p>A pair of brown oxfords were on the floor in front of Gabriel’s door. Awkward place for them, right in everyone’s way. “I didn’t put them there.”</p><p>“Of course not.” Now Aziraphale clearly didn’t know what to think. “Gabriel put them out.”</p><p>“Good for him,” Beals said.</p><p>Aziraphale lifted his eyebrows, waiting, Beals would be damned if they knew for what. Aziraphale didn’t like them, but that was alright. It wasn’t personal, it was due to them trying to keep Crowley away. Not that it was working – here came rock thrower number two, Crowley slithering upstairs where he shouldn’t be.</p><p>“Hey, hi,” Crowley said breathlessly. “Fancy meeting you here.”</p><p>This was, of course, directed to Aziraphale, potential sugar daddy. Aziraphale’s face lit up, and he giggled (for fuck’s sake) while Crowley preened, tossing back his artfully messy hair. Sickening. Beals might as well be invisible. But as soon as they turned to leave –</p><p>“Oh, Beals,” Aziraphale said, “haven’t you forgotten something?”</p><p>In that instant, they got it. The shoes. The boss puts the shoes in the corridor; the butler glides silently through the halls at night like some tiny, unobtrusive insect and takes the shoes away to the butler’s pantry to polish them. Then the butler brings them back and puts the shoes where they found them, only now gleaming in a way appropriate to a vain, overdressed wanker like Gabriel Horn.</p><p>“Right,” they said through gritted teeth. “The shoes.”</p><p>“Gabriel was in quite a snit over it this morning,” Aziraphale said. </p><p>“He didn’t say a word to me,” Beals said. </p><p>Crowley shook his head. “It’s a shame to see standards slip. You know, where’s the work ethic these days?”</p><p>That goddamn snake. Beals wasn’t going to forget this any time soon.</p><p>“I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” Aziraphale said. “Beals will assure Gabriel that they understand their duties much better from this point forward, and no harm done.”</p><p>Although Aziraphale’s smile was perfectly polite, Beals realized the man could be a bastard when he chose. Polish Gabriel’s shoes! He never left the house. When did his shoes get the chance to become unpolished?</p><p>You’d think that would be the end of it, but no. When they carried the spotless shoes down the stairs to the first floor, Gabriel lurked at the bottom of the staircase, obviously waiting for them. Rock thrower number three. Gabriel gave them a nasty, spiteful smirk when he saw the shoes hanging from Beals’s fingers. </p><p>“Well,” Gabriel said, “we are full of the old initiative, aren’t we?”</p><p>“I apologize, sir.” It didn’t sound too much like they were spitting each syllable out. “This was done differently at my last position. It won’t happen again.”</p><p>“How encouraging,” Gabriel said. </p><p>Aziraphale was right. Gabriel was in a snit. Not that Beals had ever used the word “snit,” but it summed up Gabriel’s tone more succinctly than “parole officer on a power trip,” which would’ve been Beals’s personal choice of descriptor.</p><p>As Beals headed to the butler’s pantry (come to think of it, they had noticed shoe-polishing equipment in there), Gabriel called after them. “Bring them to my office when they’re clean.”</p><p>Beals knew what that meant. White glove inspection. Fuck a duck, all they wanted was a moment to read about the Grand Cayman banking system in peace.</p><p>Only when they were finally alone in the butler’s pantry, Crowley showed up.</p><p>“So, uh, I need to talk to you privately,” Crowley said. “I tried to get you upstairs, but—”</p><p>“I know exactly what you were doing upstairs,” Beals said. “I could’ve sworn we decided that Aziraphale was too much of a distraction in your current state of mind.”</p><p>Crowley wasn’t listening. “Whaaat? Did you say distraction?”</p><p>Beals slammed a shoe on their worktable, where it clunked loudly, to their great satisfaction. Crowley flinched. </p><p>“Look, look, I’m just trying to be helpful,” Crowley said. “We’ve got a problem. Have you talked to Newt about it yet?”</p><p>“To … oh, the kid?” Beals snorted. “There was always a good chance that he’d flake out. We can do it without him.”</p><p>Crowley paced a few steps, stuttering, working his way up to coherency. “Did he tell you about the Range Rover?” he finally said.</p><p>Now this was the old Crowley. It was a relief to have the flash bastard’s mind back on its usual one track. “I don’t care which cars we take. Pick the most valuable, the ugliest, the ones that whisper in your ear at night. I could care less.”</p><p>“No, this is important.” Crowley ran his fingers through his hair, destroying what was possibly hours of work. “We’re being watched. I don’t think we can leave with the goods right now.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?”</p><p>Crowley looked out the pantry door nervously. “Look, I gotta go. Talk to Newt. Like, right now, talk to Newt.”</p><p>“Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?”</p><p>“I’m doing my part,” Crowley insisted. “I’m taking Aziraphale into town so he can tell me what everyone in Tadfield drives.”</p><p>“That doesn’t sound like doing your part.” Beals fixed Crowley with their most menacing glare. “Have you been mooning over how all the names of those cars are going to sound in received pronunciation?”</p><p>“No. What? No, I haven’t … uh, I mean … what were you just saying?” </p><p>Shit, Crowley was imagining it right now. Beals shouldn’t have put the thought in his head. They’d better go back to square one.</p><p>“You want me to talk to Newt?” they said slowly.</p><p>Crowley nodded. “This is very important. Highest priority. Except I gotta go, Aziraphale’s waiting for me.” </p><p>Crowley left like his arse was on fire. Apparently, whatever Newt had to say was second highest priority. “Crowley is not my responsibility,” Beals chanted under their breath. “Crowley is old enough to take care of himself and set his own boundaries.”</p><p>The worst part was Newt would have to be their second priority too. If he didn’t get those shoes presented for inspection right away, Gabriel would be snippy with him for days. That wasn’t conducive to little confidential chats about banking practices in overseas havens.</p><p>Then they needed to read that article about off-shore financial institutions. Maybe Crowley had a point about not rushing this job. It might be possible to stick around Eden’s Garden until they could worm their way into Gabriel’s confidence. With Gabriel this isolated, it shouldn’t take long. Beals could figure out a way to get to those hidden assets without anyone being the wiser, especially with Dagon’s help. Not that they followed the Great Plan anymore, but they were sure rule number four applied here: don’t be afraid to reach for the stars.</p><p> </p><p>Gabriel’s office had been designed by one of the finest teams of nostalgic re-creators who’d ever charged thousands of pounds to evoke the days before central heating and plumbing. The electric lights had been fashioned at great expense to flicker like gaslights. An oversized chair rail displayed a large collection of iron antique mechanical banks. Beals used to think the Great Plan was the cutting edge of modern psychological research. If they’d known the whole scheme was thought up by someone inspired by a plaster bust on a pedestal depicting … himself? Beals studied it hoping to be wrong, but they weren’t. Gabriel had a plaster bust of <i>himself</i>.</p><p>Gabriel also had a partner desk, probably the notion of one of those nostalgic decorators. It was a relic of the halcyon days when barristers liked each other. The desk had two working sides, a larger, more elaborate side for Gabriel, and a short chair bumping against the wall on the plainer side for Dagon. Dagon didn’t so much as glance at Beals, who stood there with the shoes like a statue to commemorate meaningless busy work. Instead, she stared into her laptop screen. If only Beals could tell her to find the kid, but mere butlers didn’t tell private secretaries what to do, did they?</p><p>Gabriel took the shoes with a murmured “good.” Beals had to wait for the inspection to be completed, and if Gabriel’s parole officer act carried through, they’d be giving the shoes a second polish any minute now.</p><p>One of the penny banks caught their attention. It was a little boat with a big-nosed fisherman. The nose was painted red. That was probably supposed to be an amusing reference to a lifetime of alcohol abuse, ha ha, what a laugh. Beals checked their pockets. The only coin they had on hand was a pound coin, but it fit on the flat plate at the end of the fishing line. The weight of the coin caused the machinery in the fisherman’s arm to move, pulling the fishing line. The coin fell into the open creel in the boat, where it dropped into the bank.</p><p>Beals scowled at the fisherman. “How do I get my pound back?”</p><p>The parole officer disappeared. Gabriel was all smiles again. “Ha! Got another one.” </p><p>He dropped the shoes and fidgeted with his top desk drawer until he got it open. Beals was expecting to get their coin returned, but instead, Gabriel extracted a worn, creased notepad closed with a neon pink rubber band. He unwound the rubber band, made a mysterious notation, and chuckled to himself.</p><p>“What’s that?” Beals said. “Is that where you write down that you owe me a pound?”</p><p>“That pound is gone, my friend,” Gabriel said merrily. He closed the notepad with a few twists of the rubber band. “I have to keep track for my number system.”</p><p>Oh, so Gabriel had a number system. Now this was interesting. “What do you do with your number system?”</p><p>“He doesn’t talk about his number system,” Dagon said. “It’s a superstition.”</p><p>Gabriel pouted. “It’s not a superstition. It’s a secret. A man’s entitled to keep his own counsel, no matter what the government tries to tell you.”</p><p>“Of course, sir.” Sometimes Beals forgot who they were dealing with. Gabriel Horn had embezzled millions of pounds of stockholder money over the course of a decade. That open expression on his face, those constant platitudes dropping out of his mouth, they were all a façade. Horn felt personally entitled to the money made from the Great Plan, and he was capable of being a sneaky bastard to get it and keep it.</p><p>“When we were developing the Great Plan, I met a numerologist.” Gabriel put the notebook back in his top desk drawer and fiddled around, closing it tightly. “Fascinating study, numerology. I didn’t get to elaborate on it for publication, but you should look into it. Numbers have secret, hidden meanings.”</p><p>Gabriel finally finished playing with his desk. The shoes were entirely forgotten. “So, what’s on the agenda for today?” he asked Dagon.</p><p>Beals remained expressionless. They could almost feel sorry for Gabriel. Avoiding prison, they knew firsthand, was a full-time occupation that left a person with way too much time to think. Rather like being in prison itself, except with much better food and more comfortable accommodations.</p><p>“The Senior Center wants you to buy them a wheelchair-friendly van for transporting people to doctor’s appointments,” Dagon said.</p><p>Gabriel scowled. “Everybody wants something. Rehabilitation is hard work.”</p><p>“Truer words were never spoken, sir,” Beals said. </p><p>“Also, someone left a message about refinishing your tennis court,” Dagon said. “If you’re interested, I could –”</p><p>Gabriel jumped up. “I’ll go look at it, see if it needs it. Tennis! Just the thing.” He squinted at Beals, as if seeing them for the first time. “Do you play tennis, Beals?”</p><p>“It’s frowned on, generally, for butlers,” Beals said. Actually, Higgins on <i>Magnum P.I.</i> had played, but there was no way Beals was getting suckered into doing physical exercise.</p><p>“I’m getting changed into my whites,” Gabriel said. “If you see Anathema, tell her to meet me on the court.”</p><p>The moment Gabriel left the room, Beals made a beeline to the desk drawer. The secret number system in that notebook most likely held the account numbers and passwords for Gabriel’s offshore bank accounts. Only now that Beals could get a good look, they were staring at a small black display and button next to the drawer pull. They yanked on the handle, but the drawer was locked tight.</p><p>“Combination lock,” Dagon said. “It’s a three-digit combination, and no, it isn’t 123 or 321.”</p><p>“Dammit.” They tapped a finger absently on the top of the desk. “Still, it’s just a desk drawer. I’m sure you can jimmy it open.”</p><p>Dagon sniffed. “This desk wasn’t ordered from Ikea. That’s an Abus, the best lock money can buy. Gabriel has better security on that drawer than he has on the rest of the estate, including the cars. The only way to get in is to have the combination.”</p><p>“Only three digits. Won’t take long to work it out.”</p><p>“I’ve done a lot of research on this lock. You get one wrong try. On your second wrong attempt, it buzzes. Go ahead, try one.”</p><p>They understood right away. The owner of the lock might mistype the combination once, but not twice. Beals pressed the little button until the display read 666. Nothing happened. After a second, the display went black. </p><p>“I’ve also tried his birthday. He’s a Gemini.”</p><p>“Tell it to Anathema.” Beals poked the drawer but knew better than to attempt another number. “So we keep a close eye on him.”</p><p>“What do you think I’ve been doing?” Dagon sounded offended. “He’s very circumspect about entering that code. I’ll catch him at it eventually, but my impression is that we’ll be leaving soon?”</p><p>“Hmmmm.” This was like a game show. Take the cars now, or wait to see what was behind door number one. “How often does he use that notebook? I’ve never seen it before today.”</p><p>“I can’t figure it out. The strangest things set him off. Yesterday, he asked Tracy how many lemons we have and wrote that down.”</p><p>Beals frowned at the fisherman who’d stolen their pound coin. Banks. Lemons. Did lemons grow on Grand Cayman? It was an island, presumably it had fishermen. </p><p>“I cross-checked weather patterns with the kid’s work schedule,” Dagon whispered. “If we’re going to leave, tomorrow night would be ideal. There’s a storm brewing on the horizon.”</p><p>There usually was, in Beals’s experience. “Crowley wants me to talk to the kid first.”</p><p>“Where is Crowley?”</p><p>“Where do you think?”</p><p>Dagon rolled her eyes. “I never figured him for the professor type.”</p><p>“Life’s rough without a financial cushion. None of us is getting younger.” Of course, neither they nor Dagon depended as much on their physical charms as Crowley did. “Crowley is not my responsibility. Crowley is old enough to take care of himself and set his own boundaries.” If they repeated it enough, they might believe it.</p><p>Dagon glanced at the locked drawer. “Tomorrow night, then, or hold off?”</p><p>“Let’s plan on tomorrow and keep our eyes open in the meantime. If you figure that out,” they motioned to the drawer, “we can hold off. If not, I say we take the sure bet.”</p><p>“We’re calling reporting stolen goods to the insurance company a sure bet?”</p><p>Beals was about to respond to the sarcasm when they heard Gabriel yelling through the house. “Beals! I can’t find my racquet!”</p><p>They growled at the bust of Gabriel’s head. At this rate, they’d never get a chance to talk to the kid. It was most likely a ploy by Crowley to stay at Eden’s Garden long enough to seduce Aziraphale anyway. Crowley knew Beals wouldn’t be able to leave a loose thread hanging without looking after it. Goddamn it, planning an exit strategy for this place was like trying to get out of a tar pit. </p><p>They’d go talk to Newt, but first, they had to find milord’s tennis racquet. As they left Gabriel’s office, they pointed at the toy bank.</p><p>“Keep an eye on that, too. That bloody drunk fisherman owes me a pound.”</p><p> </p><p>Dee had been on edge for the last two hours in the back seat of Lizard’s Fiesta, watching the rear bumper of the angel investors’ Range Rover through the windscreen. Uriel took increasingly smaller roads before leaving pavement completely. Lizard had no trouble keeping up, but Dee kept checking his phone to make sure he didn’t lose the signal. He didn’t like the idea of Uriel and Sandalphon leading them to an isolated cabin in the woods. Sure, they said they had a place to stash Horn, but Dee kept one hand on his mobile at all times. If he dialed the emergency number, Duke and Lizard were likely to beat him senseless, but that seemed preferable to having his corpse abandoned in the middle of nowhere.</p><p>Now that they’d all agreed to get their hands on Gabriel Horn’s person – except for Dee, he hadn’t agreed, nobody had asked his opinion but here he was – they needed a plan for what to do with him. They’d have to hold Horn for a few days to pressure him to do their bidding and make sure the money transfers from his secret accounts went through. The place to hold him had to be isolated yet Internet-linked, and anonymous enough that Horn wouldn’t be able to find it afterwards. Obviously, Duke and Lizard were useless when it came to providing such a place. With some reluctance, Sandy had offered his family’s cabin, which he called a lodge. He said they only used it in the summer, so they had about a month to get rid of all evidence of Horn’s future stay.</p><p>The lodge was definitely isolated, sitting at the end of a dirt road. It had an alarm system, which Sandy disabled once the Range Rover was parked behind the lodge. Beyond the Range Rover, the trees had been thinned but not entirely cleared. Dee got out of the Fiesta and stretched, fingering his phone as he took in the heavy plywood nailed over the windows of what looked like the world’s biggest log cabin. </p><p>“Can you believe this shit?” Duke growled. “This is the house they <i>don’t</i> use.”</p><p>“How come there’s no windows?” Lizard asked. “Afraid of snipers?”</p><p>“They’re covered in the off-season,” Sandalphon said. “In the winter, rodents chew through the wood between the windowpanes, when the house isn’t occupied. They eat the grout.”</p><p>Sandy unlocked the door, and the five of them trooped into a very dark room. Sandy switched on a table lamp next to a sofa. The illuminated room looked more like a hotel lobby than someone’s living room.</p><p>“The electricity’s on?” Duke asked.</p><p>“For the alarm system,” Sandy said. “And one must maintain the temperature and humidity of the wine cellar.”</p><p>“Right, how could I forget that?” Duke said.</p><p>Uriel finally spoke up, sending chills down Dee’s spine. “I like the plywood. Horn won’t be able to see out. He won’t be able to figure out where he is.”</p><p>Sandalphon ran a finger through the dust collected on a faux-rustic end table. “I’ll set up a few laptops for our work and make sure the WiFi is active and protected. That way, we can put Horn in whichever bedroom we want. They all have attached bathrooms and doors that lock with a key.”</p><p>“You got a tiny bedroom with a lumpy bed?” Lizard asked.</p><p>“Hm, I like your thinking,” Sandalphon said. “Come along, let’s pick one out.”</p><p>He kept switching on lights as he moved farther into the windowless, cavernous lodge, revealing wood paneled walls, huge rugs, and a massive stone fireplace about the size of the flat Dee had lost when Archangel went under. Lizard followed him, in search of the most uncomfortable bedroom for Horn.</p><p>“I left a message about resurfacing the tennis courts,” Uriel said. “If they bite on it, I can rent a contractor’s truck today. That will get us past Horn’s security.”</p><p>“You mean, one of those dump trucks?” Duke sounded unimpressed.</p><p>“A plain white trailer truck. One of you will drive, and the rest will wait in the trailer. The driver will lure Horn outside, and we grab him.”</p><p>“I get to be a grabber,” Duke said. </p><p>“I can’t be the driver,” Uriel said. “Neither can Sandalphon. Horn would recognize us immediately. It has to be someone we know he’s never seen before.”</p><p>Duke hmmphed. "I was on the BBC news when Archangel closed down."</p><p>"Dare I ask why?"</p><p>"You could. But I'd give you the same answer I gave the BBC. You think I had something to do with the fire in the abandoned office, you go ahead and prove it."</p><p>Dee was mentally debating whether taking a picture of the incredible fireplace would be stupid. Better not – he didn’t want any incriminating evidence on his phone. It took him a moment to realize how quiet everyone had gotten. He looked up to find Duke’s glare boring into him.</p><p>“What?” Dee said defensively.</p><p>“Good news,” Duke said. “I think we found a job for you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's fun knowing who is going to get a happy ending and who isn't. Now that the plot is moving along, the next chapter will be Aziraphale and Crowley driving around Tadfield in the Bentley, completely oblivious to the plans being set in motion.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've gone off my weekly posting rhythm as I reach that part of the story where I want everything to be right more than I want it to be done quickly. In other words, the part where I get hung up staring at the Word document, telling myself "It's okay if you don't get this right on the first draft" and wondering if the "helpful" notes I left myself were written by drunken squirrels. I want to thank my excellent beta reader freyjawriter24 for the edits and much-needed encouragement. Thank you so much!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Crowley felt like a bundle of misfiring nerves. His future was on slippery ground. Yes, possibly the police were watching the estate, but he kept telling himself he hadn’t stolen anything yet. As far as anyone could see, he was only a mild-mannered chauffeur. He’d forgotten how the days before a heist turned him into a wreck of a person with stomach cramps and a thumping pulse. And he’d forgotten how his anxiety spilled over into everything. Like now, pulling the Bentley to the front of the house for Aziraphale.</p><p>This was the first time Crowley was taking Aziraphale out in this car, the crown jewel of the collection. What if Aziraphale didn’t like the Bentley? Crowley had waxed and detailed it inside and out, but what if he’d missed something? Worse, what if the Bentley didn’t like Aziraphale? That was too weird, wasn’t it? Yeah, he was definitely being weird. Of course the Bentley liked Aziraphale. It had been rescued from decay to live in luxury at Eden’s Garden. Okay, that was mostly Gabriel’s doing, but the Bentley preferring Gabriel was simply unthinkable.</p><p>When he spotted Aziraphale leaving the house, he leapt up as if he’d been poked with a sharp fork. His reflexes were hyperalert and working much faster than his brain. He opened the passenger door with shaking hands. Aziraphale came close enough for Crowley to smell him, an enticing blend of delicately floral cologne, the overpacked bookshelf scent of the library, and possibly one of Tracy’s scones. Crowley swallowed and attempted a smile. Aziraphale’s return smile radiated warmth, so much warmth, all directed at Crowley. That heat expanded his chest, letting in some much needed oxygen but also causing his mind to race. <i>What are you doing, he is so out of your league, you’re stealing from his brother, he’s going to hate you.</i></p><p>Crowley got behind the steering wheel and inhaled deeply. Just … just … it was going to be alright. This was what he was supposed to be doing right now, driving around with Aziraphale looking for cars that didn’t belong in Tadfield. <i>Just enjoy the day. It’s the last good day you’ll get.</i></p><p>“What a gorgeous car!” Aziraphale said. “It’s like a work of art, isn’t it?”</p><p>Aziraphale looked like an artwork himself in his soft velvet waistcoat. Crowley could see exactly where his fingers had fidgeted the pile off the fabric. If he had the courage, he could feel those same spots, trace where Aziraphale’s touch had lingered first.</p><p>“Kk’yyeah,” he said. “Gorgeous.”</p><p>Funny, he’d rehearsed a monologue describing the impressive features of the Bentley, but he couldn’t remember a single word of it.</p><p>He dropped the Bentley into first gear. Driving always cleared his head. He should say something else, maybe, get his brain to form a polite sentence. Although Aziraphale seemed content watching the blossoming trees through the windscreen. He was humming tunelessly under his breath, happy to be on an outing with Crowley. It was just ridiculous, really. Yup, that was the word. Ridiculous.</p><p>“So, uh, thanks for coming out with me,” Crowley finally managed to say.</p><p>“It’s my pleasure. Although I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. If you want to know about the residents of Tadfield, we should take Tracy with us.”</p><p>No, nope, that wasn’t going to happen. “Eh, don’t need to know who they’re snogging, just what they drive.”</p><p>“But I’m terrible at that,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t drive, remember?”</p><p>“I offered to teach you to drive. Offer still stands, by the way.”</p><p>Oh, fuck, what was he saying? No, this was good. This was something a completely innocent man would say.</p><p>“That’s very kind of you, but you don’t want to teach me to drive in a car this valuable.”</p><p>“It is not kind of me. Just because I’m not going back on my word.” He couldn’t listen to Aziraphale’s praise, not now. “Tell you what, help me out and I’ll show you how the pedals work.”</p><p>“Or I could watch you very closely while you drive.”</p><p>Aziraphale glanced at him coyly from under his eyelashes, and then looked away with a self-satisfied smile. Crowley’s pulse sped up again, fluttering in his neck. If Aziraphale was going to flirt with him, well. He could play that game, too.</p><p>He dropped his left hand from the steering wheel, ghosting it against Aziraphale’s thigh before resting his hand between them on the bench seat. He faced forward, pretending to be absorbed by the road ahead, but risked a quick look sideways. Aziraphale’s mouth was slightly open, his expression puzzled. As if Crowley hadn’t been completely transparent, as if Aziraphale couldn’t read his emotions like an open book. Well, except for the whole being a criminal and planning a burglary thing. So, not an open book at all. Fuck, no wonder Aziraphale was confused. <i>Stop screwing with Aziraphale’s head</i>, Crowley told himself harshly. <i>Stick to business.</i></p><p>“Newt said the Range Rover and the Ford Fiesta have been driving past at all hours, acting suspicious,” Crowley said. “I want to see if anyone in town drives a Range Rover or a Fiesta. I’ll have you back home in an hour, tops.”</p><p>“Alright,” Aziraphale said slowly. “A Range Rover and a Ford Fiesta. Do those cars look alike?”</p><p>Crowley spent the miniscule drive to town trying to describe the difference. “Like, if they were people, the Range Rover would be a business school choad who wants everyone to know his take-home pay, and the Fiesta would be the luckless jerk thrown out of the pub for vomiting on the table.”</p><p>“And … what do the cars look like?”</p><p>“I just explained.” Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had trouble listening when the two them were sitting close together. Because it made blood rush through Crowley’s ears, made time speed up so it was hard to catch every word.</p><p>They cruised some residential streets before hitting the high street. It was Sunday, and Crowley had no idea where the good people of Tadfield went during the work week, but today, their cars were parked snugly at home.</p><p>“That’s the Youngs’ house,” Aziraphale said.</p><p>Crowley checked out the driveway and whistled. “Well-preserved car. I’ll bet he actually reads his maintenance manual.”</p><p>“Bit of a scandal there last week. Tracy says their son Adam was suspended from school for fixing a leaky sink in the girls’ lavatory during lessons.”</p><p>“Now you’re having me on.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”</p><p>Crowley tried not to flinch. Ugh, that smile, that endearment, they cut like blades into the soft tissue underneath his sternum. He pushed his sunglasses more firmly onto face, blocking the sunlight. It had been cloudy all morning, portending a coming rainfall, but now the sun peeked above the clouds, giving everything an ethereal glow.</p><p>“Here’s the Wensleydales’ home,” Aziraphale said. “He’s a chartered accountant, but his mother was infamous in the area for a licentious affair with a Brazilian diplomat.”</p><p>“Let me guess. You heard that from Tracy.”</p><p>“How could you tell?” Aziraphale was grinning from ear to ear. “I saw old Mrs. Wensleydale in the Tadfield Community Players production of <i>Cabaret</i>. She's still quite the stunner.”</p><p>Crowley was not laughing. There was nothing to laugh about today, but … “Please, please tell me Tracy is in the Tadfield Community Players.”</p><p>“I’m still recovering from the shock of her <i>Cabaret</i> outfit. Too much fake fur, or perhaps I should say not enough fake fur.”</p><p>Crowley bit his lip. Nope, he was definitely not going to laugh, but his eyes teared a bit.</p><p>Aziraphale continued to chatter as Crowley drove about town, listening to the background scandal on dozens of people he was doomed to never meet. Aziraphale was shit at picking out car models, and pointed out a Volvo as a Range Rover. Really, how had he fallen for someone who didn’t recognise a Volvo? How did these things happen? It should’ve been embarrassing.</p><p>“This isn’t working,” Crowley said. He should head home — head to the estate, he meant. Say goodbye to Aziraphale.</p><p>“I have an idea,” Aziraphale said. “Let’s park on the high street and watch as cars drive in and out of town. I’m sure that will be the best way to catch Newt’s suspicious vehicles in the act.”</p><p>“Mehh, you know, that sounds reasonable. Alright.”</p><p>When they got to High Street, Aziraphale pointed out a spot along the kerb with a good view of the entrance to town. Crowley showed off his parallel parking skills, spinning the wheel with one hand while in reverse. Not that he expected Aziraphale to notice.</p><p>“Oh, very good parking job,” Aziraphale said. “Nice and neat.”</p><p>Crowley could feel his face burning. “Uh, thanks.” He scoped out their chosen perch. “So, you say this is the spot with the best view, do you?”</p><p>“Yes, don’t you agree?”</p><p>Crowley peered over the frames of his glasses. “It’s just that I couldn’t help but notice we’re parked in front of a bakery.”</p><p>Aziraphale widened his eyes in poor imitation of innocence. “Are we? I can’t say that I noticed.”</p><p>There were only so many times a person could stop themselves from laughing, and Crowley had hit the limit. He folded his arms over the Bentley’s oversized steering wheel and buried his face in his elbow to mask his laughter.</p><p>“Goodness, are you alright?” Aziraphale leaned in closer to check. God, he smelled delicious.</p><p>“No. I am not alright,” Crowley said. “I am not going to be alright until we get some pastry.”</p><p>“I suppose if you insist on it.”</p><p>“I absolutely insist.”</p><p>He was quick enough to get out, round the Bentley, and open the passenger door before Aziraphale could. Aziraphale touched his arm in thanks, and Crowley was rocketed back in time to his awkward preteen years. <i>Dear Diary, today Aziraphale touched me and I’m never washing this shirt again.</i> Probably a good thing he wasn’t still driving.</p><p>Aziraphale needed to consider all the bakery’s offerings before getting stuck choosing between rum baba and raspberry mocha torte. While he agonised over the decision, Crowley purchased two of each. The clerk handed him a crinkly white bag, and he decided to carry it instead of giving it to Aziraphale. <i>Dear Diary, Aziraphale let me carry his bag for him today, although it was more like he didn’t stop me.</i> Pathetic.</p><p>Out on the pavement, Aziraphale took a deep breath. “It’s good to get out in the fresh air, isn’t it? Although it looks like the clouds will start spitting any moment. As they say, April showers bring May flowers.” He motioned across the road. “The park here has absolutely lovely gardens. I wonder if the tulips have bloomed yet.”</p><p>There was really no other choice but to walk across the street so Aziraphale could see if the flowers were opening. Crowley liked a well-planned garden himself, although Tadfield’s green space wasn’t up to his standards.</p><p>“I mean, a line of yellow daffodils in front of a line of red tulips? Not very imaginative, is it? And what’s that coming up next to them, peonies? Pffft. Those tulips are sagging, too.”</p><p>“I’m sure they’re trying their best,” Aziraphale said. “It’s quite early in the season.”</p><p>“No excuse for slacking.” He cast his gaze past the tulip bed to the bushes behind them and shook his head. “Those hydrangeas should’ve been trimmed back in October.”</p><p>“I’m sure you’re right. There’s a bench by the pond if you don’t mind, although the swans here are unusually aggressive.”</p><p>“More aggressive than city swans?” Tadfield was a town with many hidden treasures. “This I have to see.”</p><p>But the swans were peacefully swimming in the pond, paying no mind to them. The ducks, on the other hand, mobbed Aziraphale immediately.</p><p>“Forget it, you freeloaders,” Crowley told them sternly. “We’re not sharing the pastry.”</p><p>“Let’s taste it before we make a final decision,” Aziraphale said.</p><p>“See, you’re an easy touch. That’s why you’re surrounded.”</p><p>“But they have babies, Crowley. I’ll just give them a pinch.”</p><p>
  <i>Dear Diary, today Aziraphale and I shared a park bench while I watched him feed Italian pastry to ducklings. Then I died of adorableness, the end.</i>
</p><p>Crowley’s phone, tucked in his jacket pocket, vibrated. He pulled it out to see a lengthy text from Beals, which he decided to read later, when he was less occupied. He stashed the phone in his jacket and stretched his arm along the back of the bench, behind Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale didn’t object when he inched closer, although it made Crowley’s chest feel fluttery.</p><p>“So,” Aziraphale said, “what made you decide to become a driver rather than a landscaper?”</p><p>“Eh, the garden appreciation is a recent thing.” He’d picked it up driving to national parks for want of something to do on his days off work, but he didn’t need to bore Aziraphale to death. “I wanted to be a race car driver when I was a kid, but racing is a rich person’s hobby.”</p><p>“I honestly don’t know how Gabriel became interested in cars,” Aziraphale said. “He grew up in California, where I think it’s more of a lifestyle.”</p><p>“Must be strange, having a brother halfway across the world.”</p><p>Aziraphale was quiet while he scattered crumbs to the ducks. Crowley watched their vicious backbiting approvingly. Ducks understood the world. Pastries in Tadfield’s park were worth fighting for. You didn’t get that every day, although maybe you did if you were a duck. Lucky goddamn bastards.</p><p>“Did your parents take you to races?” Aziraphale said suddenly.</p><p>“My parents? Nah, I didn’t know my father much. My mother …” He cut himself off. No need to get into that. “I had a foster family that took me to amateur circuit races. You ever been?”</p><p>Aziraphale shook his head. “Did I miss out on something exciting?”</p><p>Crowley didn’t have the words to describe the memory of the circuit. The night races, with the bright lights illuminating the track. The smell of exhaust and petrol. The sounds of the engines roaring and the spectators cheering, all so loud he’d lose hearing for hours after a race and his throat would be raw from screaming. Mostly, he remembered how patient the car owners were with his millions of questions, and how much they encouraged him.</p><p>“The drivers would prop open their cars’ bonnets when they weren’t on the track, and you could take a look and ask them anything,” he said. “It was just a bunch of people who loved their cars, you know? People who loved what they were doing. And I figured I could be one of a bunch of people who loved cars. I belonged there too.”</p><p>This wasn’t anything he'd ever tried to communicate. He was doing a terrible job of it.</p><p>“I think I know what you mean,” Aziraphale said. “My grandparents owned a bookshop, and I used to ask them about the people whose names were on the spines of the books, who came up with my favorite stories. How did they get to be authors? It seemed like such an important responsibility. My grandmother told me they were people who loved stories. And I thought, I love stories. That could be me.” He chuckled. “Writing novels turned out to be more difficult than reading them.”</p><p>Crowley had been wondering about Aziraphale’s family since he’d met Gabriel. How had Aziraphale turned out so different from his half-brother? “So while your father was in California with Gabriel, you lived with your grandparents?”</p><p>“My mother’s parents, yes. We lived above their bookshop in Soho.”</p><p>“No shit. What was that like?”</p><p>“Growing up in Soho?” Aziraphale’s eyes shone. “I loved it. I was constantly in and out of my neighbours’ shops and restaurants. I was the only child in my grammar school interested in fusion cuisine. My goodness, the bookshop was always in total chaos. My mother would swan in with her activist groups and upend our schedules, and then she’d be gone again, off to Poland or Mexico or wherever she thought she’d make the most difference.”</p><p>Aziraphale went quiet again. He’d run out of pastry he was willing to part with, and the ducks trickled away, the ducklings following them back into the tiny pond. Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice them leave. Crowley could tell he’d triggered a bad memory but didn’t know what to do about it, other than ignore the buzzing of his mobile. He could … he could reach over and put his hand over Aziraphale’s, offer some comfort. Should he do that? He stared at Aziraphale’s hand with its extremely soft-looking skin. It looked nothing like his own hands, which were long, spindly claws covered in nicks and scars. He crept closer, close enough that their arms brushed together, shooting little zings of electricity through him. He brushed up against Aziraphale again, this time on purpose, and got a small but beautiful smile for his efforts.</p><p>“If you like Soho, you might be interested to know that I still live there, above the bookshop. It’s very convenient to campus, and the students find it fascinating. Although I do have some trouble keeping them from frequenting the shop.” Aziraphale pouted a bit, and Crowley resisted the urge to run a finger over his lips.</p><p>“Students,” he said instead. “Bloody menaces, all of them.”</p><p>“I just put it together that we have something important in common,” Aziraphale said. “We both teach young people about the things that helped us feel like we belonged.”</p><p>Aziraphale blushed as he spoke, as if he feared he’d overstepped by saying something so incredible. Nobody had ever looked at Crowley’s life like that. Hell, Crowley had never looked at his own life like that. Most people acted like he suffered from delusions, living like he did. If there wasn’t any glory in the secret occupation of being a getaway driver, there was even less admiration for driving instructors. To Beals and Dagon, to most people, he knew he was something of a joke.</p><p>As Aziraphale met his gaze, he could see admiration in his eyes, and it wasn’t just for his appearance. Although Aziraphale also made him feel attractive, and interesting, and right now like he was going around a steep curve at 70 miles an hour.</p><p>Crowley didn’t mean to lean forward. It happened without his conscious will. But he was almost sure Aziraphale kissed him first. It was a gentle touch of Aziraphale’s lips to his. He could feel his heartbeat throb through his entire body. Aziraphale’s lips were warm and buttery from the pastry. Crowley didn’t want to close his eyes. He had to know for sure this was really happening.</p><p>Too soon, Aziraphale pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve asked—”</p><p>“No! No, don’t apologise, that was …” <i>awesome, incredible, amazing, fantastic</i> “That was nice.”</p><p>“Yes, it was.” Aziraphale looked so fucking happy. Crowley was a monster, he truly was. Why couldn’t he own a freeze ray he could use to stay right here forever, basking in unearned appreciation and stealing kisses from this intelligent, beautiful man?</p><p>His mobile buzzed again.</p><p>“You should probably get that. Your caller is very persistent.”</p><p>“Don’t wanna.”</p><p>But Aziraphale stood, marking the end of their interlude from reality. He was beaming at Crowley, though, so that was good. That was very, very good. Reluctantly, Crowley glanced at his mobile screen to read Beals’s text.</p><p>
  <i>It’s happening tomorrow night. Get the professor out of the way.</i>
</p><p>Bollocks. He didn’t want to deal with this mess, even though he’d created it. Especially since he’d created it. He wasn’t a driving instructor or a chauffeur or even a getaway driver. He was a car thief. He could console himself musing on the excellence of the automobiles he was stealing, but he was still a thief, plain and simple.</p><p>He didn’t deserve Aziraphale. And Aziraphale didn’t deserve having to be at Eden’s Garden when the thievery went down. He should at least be somewhere nice, doing something he enjoyed, so he wouldn’t feel guilty for not watching Crowley when it counted.</p><p>He stood up and stretched, and pretended not to notice Aziraphale’s gaze rake over his body. Although there were definitely parts of him noticing eagerly. That was a worry for later, when he was alone.</p><p>“What are you doing tomorrow night?” he asked, keeping his voice as light and effortless as the cold April sunshine.</p><p>“I don’t have any plans.”</p><p>“Tadfield must be boring you to death by now. Maybe there’s something going on in London.”</p><p>Damn, he was as obvious as a brick thrown through a window. Each word he pushed out of his mouth seemed to weigh as much as a brick. He was so tired of lying to Aziraphale.</p><p>They walked back to the Bentley side by side, Aziraphale chattering about live music venues in the city. Crowley could just imagine the concerts Aziraphale attended, classy things with string instruments and chamber music and lots of champagne. Aziraphale probably dressed to the nines and drew everyone’s eye. Crowley didn’t belong any place like that, and he never would. But he made encouraging noises. Anything to get Aziraphale out of Eden’s Garden tomorrow night.</p><p>Maybe someday in the far future, years from now, when they could look back on this and laugh, he would write Aziraphale an apology letter. And maybe someday, Aziraphale would read that letter. Maybe that could be something to hope for, if it wasn’t too much to ask of the universe.</p><p>Crowley got behind the wheel, feeling the hard certainty of the Bentley’s smooth steering wheel under his palms. His lips still tingled warmly from Aziraphale’s gentle kiss. The money wasn’t worth this betrayal, but it was too late to back out of his commitments now. He was a damned soul. Whatever happened now, he deserved the worst.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This story is based on Donald E. Westlake's novel <i>The Road to Ruin</i>. This novel is part of Westlake's Dortmunder series of comic crime novels. If you haven't read any of these, I highly recommend them. I'd start the series with <i>Drowned Hopes</i>, which is one of the funniest books I've ever read. These aren't romance books, so I'm making major changes. That means condensing the details of the crime plot to fit more Crowley and Aziraphale scenes, so whatever details of this heist seem half-baked, that's me and not Westlake. If you're familiar with the series, you'll notice that Beezlebub is playing Dortmunder. I'm making the getaway driver the star of this one. Like Stan Murch in the novels, Crowley would totally spend the first hour of any conversation replaying his drive there. </p><p>I'd like to give a million thanks to my beta reader, freyjawriter24. <i>The Road to Ruin</i> is set in Pennsylvania, and I'm in New York. I've tried to move this seamlessly to Tadfield, but any mistakes in doing so are completely mine, including spelling. Freyja has done her best, but I can't figure out what British English has against the letter z.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>